


Not Of Glass, But Diamond

by Goodminji, LeftNotRight



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 1960s, Amputee, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Italian Mafia, Military, OCs Because I'm That Trash, Past Loss of Limbs, Phantom pain, Reborn being Reborn, Reborn has a Type, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Some Things Don't Fit The Timeframe I'm Sorry, Verde being Verde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2020-09-30 17:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20450975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodminji/pseuds/Goodminji, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftNotRight/pseuds/LeftNotRight
Summary: "I'm not made of glass, you know?""Yes, but you don't throw a diamond at a wall either, do you, bella?"When an idiot takes the wrong amputee as hostage, Silvestro Russ finds her peaceful days of military discharge numbered, especially if the name-juggling cryptid has anything to say about it. It would seem that 'Reborn the World's Greatest Hitman' has a Type: tall, loves kids, and all too ready to kick your ass.





	1. Chapter 1

** Not Of Glass, But Diamond **

**Because of that Goddamned EvilMinji(♡)**

* * *

**Chapter 1**  
**-Venice, 1965-**

Silvestro gazed out the window blankly and the morning bus grumbled at the station, engine shivering in the cold morning as those poor dawn commuters stumbled into empty seats, dropping down in isolation, not wanting to share the space they had. Silvestro didn't care so long as they didn't sit next to her, the duffel bag full of her gear taking up the rest of the seat and her luggage crushed up against her legs.

"This is the bus to Venice, yes?" someone asked, a tourist from their accent; American.

"Yes, all the way," the driver answered snappily, just as tired as the rest.

"Oh, ah, thank you," they murmured, before stepping the rest of the way into the aisle, glancing around for an empty seat. They gazed from person to person before settling to stare at Silvestro for a moment too long.

She thinned her lips and narrowed her eyes at them, challenging them to speak up. It was only when they dropped their widened eyes and scuttled to the back of the bus, something metal clanking loudly inside their backpack, did she allow them relief from her practised glower. The young Italian woman sighed to quell her aggravation as the vehicle finally lurched from the stop, rolling forward and merging with the sparse sunrise traffic.

The sun peeked into the misty sky, making the horizon a minted blue that made her eyes ache with the desire for sleep. Cars loitered around at lights as the buildings became a dusty familiar as her brown gaze drifted around. She slowly placed old memories as an ancient clock tower struck another hour of the morning, the stone blackened by the shadow of the Industrial Revolution.

Her destination was on the outskirts of Venice; not the place of canals and romantic rowboats, but still so within the catchment that it wasn't worth calling it anything other than 'Venice'. With another lurch of the bus, Silvestro pocketed her paper map to free up her hand and shrugged on her duffel bag across her shoulder, before shuffling out of the seat, the luggage causing more trouble than it would have maybe a month ago. The woman stood up, giving a grumble of annoyance as her head collided with the slanted sides of the bus' ceiling, forcing her to bow her considerable height, years of labour showing in the defined chords of her arm as she lifted the baggage.

"Thanks," she grunted as the doors opened, her solid boots thumping against the floor.

"No problem, soldier-lady."

Silvestro tongued the roof of her mouth to withhold herself as she stepped off the bus, luggage rolling after her, her sleeves adorned with a trio of golden stars, marking the hulking woman as the _Capitano Silvestro Russ._

"Sure."

The wheels of her light luggage rumbled against the gravelly concrete of the footpath, eyes dragging across the long, brick apartment buildings, old, but sturdier than any of the cheap new shit they were tossing up nowadays. Her keys jangled in her pocket, a weight she hadn't felt in a while as she made her way down a short couple steps and into a council garden, the doors open for visitors and residents.

Silvestro sighed as she shifted her shoulder under the strap of her bag, looking up at the winding steps she'd need to climb; the fourth floor if she remembered correctly.

Her boots made the hollow well thunder, and the bang of her luggage jumping against the steps no doubt woke someone up in the early morn, but the militant couldn't find it in herself to care very much, too apathetic and drained. The brass numbers on red doors caught her mahogany eye under the yellowed lights, and she made a mental count before slowing to a halt before the familiar _no.27._

She let go of the luggage handle and plunged her hand into her pocket, pulling out a key with a little tooth charm on the key chain. It slipped in easily enough and opened with a creak, the hinges unused in a while.

Then the luggage rolled onto its front, weight distributed unevenly.

Silvestro stared at the fallen baggage with a mixture of dispassion and annoyance, before she bent and made to grab the handle again, only for her duffle bag to slip and hang off her neck awkwardly, yanking the worn muscles in her nape and burning her skin. She gave a harsh curse as her temper flared before biting her lip and dragging everything into her apartment with aggression. She shut the door with a little too much strength and snapped the three locks in place before palming at the light switch, grumbling as it flickered with old age.

"God damn it," she exhaled deeply, dropping the keys into a bowl by the door. "Has _anyone_ been here?"

The air itself smelt old and there was a thick carpet of dust across the shelves. There must have been some sort of fruit left in the fridge because an odour emanated from it with a lethal enmity that could only come from something truly abandoned. The windows were grimy from being frozen shut and then melted in by seasons unattended, and Silvestro didn't even want to try to sleep in her old bed just yet.

"I'll deal with it later…"

Deciding that it was wiser to keep her shoes on, for now, the woman crossed the main room to make an attempt at the window, a grunt escaping as the fingers of her left hand tried to get any sort of budge. She grit her teeth, feeling the stainless steel crown on her molar grind against calcium before the metal frame stubbornly screeched open, at the expense of a long crack splitting the glass.

"Fuck," Silvestro uttered quietly, touching the snapped pane.

The woman let out a puff of dust when she slapped her hand against it, and the brittle nature told her she would need to replace that too. She sighed and scrubbed her hand through her black crew cut, before backing off and dropping on the little red couch, too short for her to lie across, knees hooked over the armrest.

It took shuffling, but Silvestro eventually managed to get comfortable, bringing her watch's velcro to her teeth to rip it off and let the time face fall onto the dusty carpet. She let out a deflating breath and melded to the shape of the couch, staring up at the ceiling blankly as cars cast momentary light across the white surface.

"… My arm hurts," she commented, talking about her right arm.

Which wasn't surprising, despite it not being there anymore.

**◇◇◇**

_"And darling, darling stand by me. Oh, now, now, stand by me. Stand by me, stand by me!"_ The radio chatted over the screeching of the vacuum which didn't exactly 'glide' over Silvestro's floorboards, catching on corners and rolling over whenever she needed to turn an angle any greater than 45 degrees.

The ex-militant had woken up from a restless sleep with an aching back, shoulders stiff and feet numb from a lack of circulation, making it uncomfortable to walk around, but she had grit her teeth and persevered, the state of her discarded apartment something that irked her to no end. She had rolled up her sleeve, with some difficulty, before getting to work.

It turns out that there was indeed something left in the fridge from the months ago she had left, an oversight that resulted in a bunch of bananas not being able to decide if they wanted to liquefy into sweetly pungent, black slick, or calcify into a fossil in the bottom drawer. Her hand still felt rubbery from the intense scrubbing and chemical detergents that went into the effort of removing the stained shelf which was now soaking in steaming hot water.

Silvestro sighed and stomped on the button at the back of the vacuum to turn it off, the floors and surfaces clean, finally, after hours of maintenance. All she had to do now was wait for her sheets to finish washing and the cushions and mattress to air out so she could assemble everything, then her apartment will be back in order and stop bothering her.

Her back creaked as she stretched and rolled her shoulders, scar tissue pulling uncomfortably for a moment on the right side before settling under her shirt. Hardwood eyes trailed around the living quarters critically, trying to find fault or inconsistency, before she nodded to herself, satisfied with the state of the apartment and turned on her socked heel to prepare for the next on her list.

The woman leant closer to the vanity's mirror in the bathroom to inspect the scar on the corner of her jaw, closer to her ear than her chin and, of course, on the right side of her face. She sighed when it was still tender to the touch, before tearing off a portion of MediSil tape and covering it up, the salve making her skin a bit itchy, but to be expected. The MediSil was prescribed to her in order to dissuade visible scarring on her face and neck, and though she really had no problem with such things, she agreed to do it if only to get the people at the barracks to stop staring at her whenever they visited the ward.

She pushed off the sink with a grunt and shed her clothing, wardrobe freshly washed and still sun-warmed to her hands as she rooted through, trying to find something warm in this weather. Her lips pulled as she was faced with a plethora of long dresses, the reminder that this was her selection now, rather than the male's uniform that had been shoved into her arms years ago.

"I have to go clothes shopping too," Silvestro uttered, dropping the seventh too small dress. She hummed in annoyance before tugging back on her uniform pants and a shirt that had been too large when she had bought it years ago, a black tweed overcoat that once belonged to a man following next.

A forgotten, folded paper crinkled in her pant pocket as Silvestro stuffed her feet into yesterday's boots, keys hanging off her thumb while the right arm of her dark coat hung, hollow. She stared at it for a moment before squeezing her hand, feeling the metal keys bite into her palm in self-reprimand.

A quick breath prompted her forwards, and she flipped off the lights as she stepped into the hall of her apartment building, the faintest of chatter audible from within rooms. She locked her door and pocketed her key before making her way down the levels, all of which looked oddly different to when they had been doused in murky light. Her boots thudded down the steps and crunched on the debris of Autumn leaves as a chill blasted the woman, making her lip tug into a frown.

Silvestro shoved her hand in her pocket as she trudged down the street, her lips coming to be pulled taut and thin as passersby did not-so-subtle double-takes at the limply hanging sleeve. Her shoulder pulsed with an ache when she acknowledged the lost part, making her shake her head and march on, rounding a little town-square fountain that sparked a memory, before she stepped into a bustling shopping district, Italian jumping from hagglers and dealers in rushed, practised lines.

The noise was enough to make the woman stressed for a moment before she trained herself and walked on, her hand coming to lay over her wallet in her back pocket as she shoved past a crowd of people. Upon entering a familiar little greengrocer, _Aurelio's_, Silvestro relaxed and grabbed a basket, making a mental note of what she needed as a starter, too tired to bother with a proper haul. It was only a walk away anyway, she could come back later if need be.

Silvestro made rounds of the store, knowing this store from before her discharge. The owner, Aurelio, and she were good friends, though she'd hesitate to call them anything more, and they'd often discuss a range of topics after she had finished her shopping and he was ringing them up for her. His son should be just about finished High School by now if she was correct.

With a litre of milk, a loaf of bread, eggs and some frozen vegetables in her basket, she grabbed a bag of apples and made her way to the cashier, pleased by the lack of a line. A woman with two young children was the only one before her, and the ex-militant found herself blinking down at two sets of huge eyes. The youngest, a little girl, waved the lollipop in her hand up at her, and Silvestro nodded in return before they were hauled off by the sleep-deprived mother.

She placed down her load and began unpacking it for the checkout, trying to ignore the way the young cashier girl's eyes flitted from her face to her empty sleeve, before pausing as her name rung out.

"Silvestro Russ, in the flesh!" Aurelio grinned, hobbling over, beer belly straining against his apron. "Since when were you back in town?"

"Just got home this morning," Silvestro smiled, welcoming a familiar face into the less than pleasant day so far. "How have you been? Boy out of school yet?"

"Julian's out exploring the Americas now, sends his best wishes every month though-" the father's eyes dropped to her hollow as their conversation screeched to a halt. His mouth moved silently as he processed it, rather slowly. "Silvestro, um-"

Silvestro got her wallet out of her pocket and laid it out on the counter, manoeuvring her wrist to pin it to the surface while she pulled out the lira as she waited for the old man to buffer through the new information. Her teeth were grit within the veil of her lips, and she made her best to hide how her mahogany eyes went hard and apathetic with frustration, slipping her change back into her stubbornly resistant wallet.

"I'm- I'm sorry, about, um, about your-" he couldn't stop looking at it, though it was obvious he was making an effort. His eyes were constantly magnetised to the handless sleeve, the crow's-feet around his eyes flat in their widened state.

The ex-militant sighed and pocketed her purse, before shoving her receipt into the plastic bags and began piling them up on her palm. They weren't heavy, so she was able to lift them easily and turn to Aurelio, who had the sense to look guilty.

"Do you need help with those? I can get one of the boys to-"

"I'll be fine, Aurelio," Silvestro declined, trying to twitch a smile in place, only for it to turn more into a grimace. "You know me, something like this won't be too much of a hassle."

The father looked unconvinced, and there was an unspoken _'but that was before'_ that hung off of his tongue. He had the good idea to withhold it, however, and only nodded with hesitance.

"Sure. Hey, come around sometime, yeah? Sabrina's been bugging me to find out your latest. Bloody gossiping woman," he laughed, strained, eyes still wandering.

"Got it, I'll drop by once I'm all settled in again. See you, Aurelio; tell Sabrina that I said 'hi'."

The cashier girl fidgeted awkwardly as Silvestro tread into the open again, mindlessly making her way to the path, trying not to flinch every time someone walked too close to her side. Her feet carried her, before she paused, a sharp bird call snapping her out of her mood. The woman turned her head and blinked when she saw a yellow-orange park, the place striking an old chord in her as she took in the winding path which led around the block. It was the long way around, but it eventually led to her street.

She let out a stressed breath as leaves crunched underfoot, trees golden in their perishing, a kind of sweet-earth smell light on the wind as she inhaled the scent of the season. Mahogany eyes travelled languidly around the place, little sparks of herself going off as she recognised scenes from this park. As she passed a park bench under a Maple tree, she noted the faded ball that was caught in the top canopy that had resiliently remained there for at least three years, making her hum as she looked to the bench itself, a huff escaping her lips and turning to a plume of mist. The rather hideous shade of yellow which used to stain the wood had been replaced with a neutral brown.

Silvestro fixed her hold on her bags and lifted her hand to massage her stiff nape, a groan slipping out between her teeth, metal crown on her back teeth catching on her tongue as she clicked out annoyance, eyes falling shut for a moment.

Then was promptly ploughed over.

"Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck!" A man hissed, untangling himself from her and scrambling to get away, not even getting to his feet and relying on his hands and knees.

The militant pushed herself up with her hand and looked to the strewn bags, milk pouring out onto the path and eggshells peppering the scene. She grunted and got to her feet, staring after the crawling man who was still dressed in his pyjamas, inside slippers hanging awkwardly off his feet. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something come into focus, seemingly having melted out the shadow of the trees.

"Oh, frightfully sorry. My friend here is terribly clumsy, I apologies on his behalf," crooned a man whose lips were pulled into a remorseful pout.

Silvestro eyed the thin man; from the downward, concealing tilt of his yellow-band fedora to the slightest dusting of gravel on the tips of his polished dress shoes. She knew instantly, from both his disposition and the manner of her shivering assailant, that these men were not friends.

The ex-militant was about to call the man out on his lie but was interrupted when the one on the floor scrambled to his feet and launched himself at her, the metallic flick of a pocket knife springing free being followed by the cold press against her jugular. There was a tense silence that followed in which everyone finally caught up with the new weight to the situation.

Breath was hot against her nape and bitter to her nose as the man growled at the other from over her shoulder, the one clad in an expensive, black suit staring blankly. Gone from his expression was the sheepish apology, the disarming courtesy, and instead was a steely confidence. This one examined the scenario without true care for it at all, and it made Silvestro thin her lips as she reigned her bubbling temper, her hollow shoulder pulsing with an uncomprehended pain.

Oh, how her patience had been tested. How the only thing standing between her and a levelled city-scape was the weeks of relentless drilling from her time as a cadet. The looks, the jeers, the expectation, the pity, and the God-forsaken tedious need to relearn fine motor functions. It had all been chiselling away at her foundations, taking away a grain at a time.

"You crippled bitch," he spat, spinning her around to glare at the woman, which altogether wasn't much of a threatening sight when he had to lift his chin to do so. "Pay attention when I'm talking to-"

Silvestro grabbed the man by the side of his shirt and yanked him forwards before shoving her empty shoulder under the forcibly risen arm, her left foot sliding up behind her right before she threw her weight and brought the man sailing over her shoulder to slam on to the dirt path. The solid thud of flesh hitting stone hadn't finished ringing out by the time the militant had brought him back into the air and slammed her knee into his stomach, a faint clatter of the knife falling from his limp hand reaching her as she threaded her fingers through his sleep-knotted hair and fixed her hold. The grand maple tree shuddered and let down a curtain of leaves as the man's nose crunched against its bark, Silvestro's teeth grit within her jaw as she exhaled heavily through her nose, only slightly satiated by the whimper that gurgled in his throat as she let him slide down the trunk and pool in a mass of pain at her feet.

"Oh, _belladonna_, you shouldn't dirty your delicate hands with someone like him. I'll handle everything, you can rest easy."

There was the scraping of gravel and Silvestro turned her gaze upon the other forgotten man, her eyes still sharpened into a miffed narrow. The lanky guy was watching her with a mixture of well-concealed things she couldn't be damned to identify before she made her way towards him, frown firm in her expression.

"This is your fault too, you son of a bitch!"

Fedora man's lips twitched into something that could have been described as a surprised reflex-smile, before Silvestro had grabbed him by the expensive lapels of his suit and spun him around, his prominently curling sideburns twirling with him. Her leg came up, and with the strength earned from dawn marches in rain or swelter, she booted the bean-stalk in the behind, ridged shoe-print showing in an earthy dusting in his black slacks.

The ex-militant's arm pulsed angrily at her, abrupt stump-ended shoulder not appreciating having been used as a flipping board. She grit her teeth against it; it wouldn't have hurt just months ago. Her hand came to cup the blunted limb as it beat hotly with her heart, lip chewed roughly in aggravation as she glared down at the empty sleeve which swung when she moved or a breeze blasted.

The scuffling of movement made her snap around, a grunted annoyance leaving her as the figure of the would-be attacker rounded a corner and disappeared beyond the buildings. When she turned back, the lanky, fedora man was gone as well, without so much as a shifting of the leaves.

Silvestro looked around in surprise, trying to catch even a glimpse of him, but found she was alone in the park. The milk was only half of what she had bought, and the eggs were fractured beyond salvation. Bread felt beaten and squashed in her hand, and the only truly saved things were the frozen vegetables and apples.

A sigh escaped her as she squatted down and began trying to pack up the mess, her hand sticky with yolk and dairy.

"Guess I haven't really had Bread Pudding in a while."

* * *

_A/N: Not everything I write will be exact in the time period of the 1960's. I'm going to try and keep it somewhat within that range, but some things will just have to be settled in. I hope you like where this is going so far!_

_-Lenori_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Ms Russ, Silvestro?" The receptionist called out into the waiting room, getting heads to lift, and only one to remain up.

"Ah," Silvestro sighed, closing the pointless magazine and getting to her feet. "That's me, yeah."

The ex-militant woman trudged into the General Practitioner's office with a yawn, her hand smothering her sleep-depravity before she was startled into silence by an amused laugh.

"Good morning, _Capitano _Russ," Doctor Orazio chuckled, a cup of pitch-black coffee on his desk beside a hefty looking folder. "Have a good night's sleep?"

"Like hell I did, Doc," she huffed, dropping down on the examination table, already knowing she'd be moved there at some point in the examination. "There were a bunch of teenagers street racing outside, God, I was going to go down there and key their cars, I swear."

The local doctor smiled at her, already very used to the woman's nature, having been her go-to doctor since she had learnt about her right to confidentiality from the age of 15.

Doctor Orazio was a man with a friendly face and a calming voice, hair greyed out from the years of medical school and old age, but he bore it with a dignity that many could not accomplish. His nose was a prominent characteristic upon his face, round and blushing with circulation, while also doing a rather good job of holding up his circle-frame glasses where others may have let them slip.

"Well, we'll get this appointment done quickly and then you can head on back to bed. Shirt please, Silvestro."

The woman grunted before grabbing the nape of her shirt and pulling it up over her head, allowing the doctor to unravel her bandages and peer underneath the many salves slathered MediSil patches. He hummed and gently applied pressure, asking for whether she could feel it, getting soft affirmations or negations.

"The bruising seems like it's healing up quickly," Orazio commented, pulling out a roll of fresh bandages and patches for reapplication. "And the scarring is less than expected," he laughed a little and paused his attention. "But then again, I think we need to make an exception to 'normal' for you, Silvestro. Stubborn as an ox, body and soul, you are."

"Thank you, I take that as a compliment," she huffed, giving herself a once over and shifting around in her new wrappings, before shrugging on her shirt.

"Keep applying the patches to the scarring for another six weeks," he instructed, going back to sit in his chair, body groaning from old joints. "And now, onto some looming topics: Silvestro, when am I going to get invited to a wedding?"

The military woman let out a suffering sigh, having fully expected the pestering doctor to launch into his tirade.

"You're a twenty-seven-year-old woman, Silvestro, nearly thirty! You'll be too old to have strong children soon!"

"That's a societal exaggeration, and you know it," she grunted, picking at a scab on her cheek.

"Perhaps, but society is a powerful thing, my dear girl, and we may know this but not everyone puts stock into it. Good men are hard to come by at your age."

Silvestro swallowed her rebuttal and massaged her shoulder silently, lips pressed thin.

"Do you still want a family?"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "but I don't know how much of a reality that can be when I'm 'crippled'."

The Doctor Orazio frowned at her, but only sighed and rolled his chair over to the bed, a hand coming to lay on her knee in comfort.

"You've always wanted a family, Silvestro, and losing an arm isn't going to take that from you. Neither is your age, you know that I'm only teasing - though, Giulio and I would love to have vicarious grand-kids. But I can't help but wonder, are your hesitations stemming from your own parents?"

"Heh," she snorted, her smirk forcibly humoured. "You and your husband love nosing into my love life."

"Or lack thereof," he joked with a raised eyebrow.

"Now you're just being rude, Doc."

**0 0 0**

Silvestro rolled her shoulder as leaves crunched underfoot, the stump still a bit offended by its weaponisation against the assailant yesterday and was making it known even when she was trying to sleep. Her apartment building peaked over the tops of the trees and allowed her to let out a relieved sigh, the cold nipping at her exposed nape.

The sounds of feet colliding with cobblestone reached her ears, and she moved to the left side of the path, intent on letting the rushing person dash past, but instead, let out a grunt of pain as a rock crashed against the back of her skull.

"Useless cripple!"

"Don't you know? You lost that arm for a reason!"

"Should'a stayed in the kitchen!"

Young boys, of course. Too much testosterone and too much time on their hands caused their idle minds to become a playground for unsavoury actions and thoughts.

Silvestro brought her hand to the back of her head and touched it, there wasn't any wetness from blood, but the heat that radiated spoke of swelling and an incoming bruise. She turned and was met with a small squadron of teenagers, five of them from the ages fifteen to seventeen, taking up the pathway with cigarettes in their lips and lighters between fingers.

Her mahogany eyes trailed over their faces with hints of miff, before she paused on the one who had his hand wrapped around another rather grisly looking rock. She recognised this one; he lived down the street from her apartment building, across the road.

"Are you the one who threw this at me?" she asked bluntly, voice a careful monotone.

He seemed bothered by her unaffected manner, teeth-gritting openly as he clutched the projectile tighter.

"Yeah? So what if I did? What are you gonna do about it, one-armed lady!?"

The boys behind him were eyeing the situation with humour, laughing with his taunts, egging him on with cheers and puffs of nicotine smoke.

Silvestro withheld the urge to raise an eyebrow and began to close the gap, her boots thumping against the path, and with every step, she could see the boy slowly begin to wonder about his choices as she finally towered over him.

"I'm going to take you to your mother," she huffed, before clamping her hand down on the back of his collar and dragging him across the street, thin townhouses looking old and well-loved as she counted their numbers and yanked the boy up onto a patio.

The boy was making a mighty effort to get away from his impending doom but Silvestro kept a merciless grip in his jacket, possible stretching the fibres as she kicked the base of the door to gain the attention of the woman of the house. The thudding of her call rung into the building and the sounds of an approaching being made her stop and take a step back, dragging the fussing boy further into the view of the house.

"Hello, who is-"

"Your son threw a rock at my head, ma'am," Silvestro said bluntly, shoving the boy into his mother's arms.

"Quinto!" she blurted, rounding on the youth who shrunk under her glare, "Did you really?!"

"Well, um, Mama, I-"

"Apologise to this nice lady, now!"

The boy, Quinto, pulled a face before looking to Silvestro, his frustration obvious as he glowered at her. His mother grabbed him by the ear and he gave a yelp, before sputtering out a fearful 'I'm sorry!'

"Room, now!" the matron snapped and pushed him down the hall, both women watched as the teenager fled to lick his wounded pride.

Quinto's mother sighed after a moment and turned to Silvestro with a worn and apologetic expression, her face young but tired as she fiddled with the strings of her apron with delicate hands. Her hair was a pale blonde and left to fall in a shiny curtain around her shoulders, flashes of pearl earrings peering through her locks. She was a short woman, with a thin and fragile frame, but her posture spoke of skill and confidence, training in some sort of fine art reflecting.

"I'm so sorry about him, he's been acting out lately and...oh, it's so cold, would you like to come in? I can apologise properly when you're settled down with something to drink."

Silvestro blinked blearily at her, the wind sending leaves scuttling along the porch, before nodding slowly and stepping into the warm house, taking off her overcoat as the door was closed. She turned and gave her coat to the mother, lips thinning when she saw milk chocolate eyes staring at her hollow sleeve.

"Yes...Your son noticed that too," she uttered, snapping the woman back into focus, who let out a sheepish laugh.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have stared. Why don't you head on into the living room? Just through there, I'll be with you in a moment."

The ex-militant nodded before heading where directed and slowly lowering herself into a soft couch that had its fair share of occupants. The room had a warm fragrance about it, with flower pots and drawn curtains keeping the room in a balance of cosy and open, a bowl of goldfish circling in the corner. A small cup of coffee was placed down on the little wooden table before her before she was joined by Quinto's mother, who smiled at the thanks that slipped out.

"I should introduce myself first, yes?" The blonde woman laughed lightly, offering Silvestro a spout of milk. "My name is Amelia Maddalena, my son, as you know, is Quinto."

"Silvestro Russ," the soldier hummed, twitching a polite but tense smile into place. "Pleasure to meet you."

The woman's delicate face brightened at the gentle introduction, perhaps having expected a more brutal result, before she smiled and took a sip of her latte.

"Please forgive my Quinto, he's not been having the best time and since his father left, he's been finding friends with some of the worst kids. He's just trying to find himself, so he's acting quite rough and stupid, but he's a good kid at heart."

Silvestro paused mid-drink and glanced to the stairwell, lips thinning when she saw the boy sitting at the top, an air of protectiveness emanating from him. She smiled despite herself, before sighing and lowering her cup.

"Very well, I know how hard it can be, for both of you. Being a single parent in times like this isn't the easiest, and the kids tend to get the repercussions of the situation," she breathed, nodding gently at Amelia.

"Oh, thank you. Despite that, his behaviour was unacceptable, and I'll have him be very aware of that, I assure you."

The women chatted for a little while longer, sipping at coffee while it began raining outside, the radio crackling songs in the background. They laughed a bit as Amelia gave stories of her son's baby antics, and became sombre as the runaway father of Quinto came up, the mother swearing she'd castrate him if she 'ever saw that bastard again!'

"What about you? Got anyone back home?" she asked, nibbling on biscuits that had been brought out.

Silvestro smiled and shook her head, a sigh slipping out as she read the engraved print on her cup.

"No, I just came back from service. My parents and I haven't ever really been close, so my mum's off in Palermo, dad's in France, Bordeaux. We still talk though, letters."

Amelia watched her guest for a moment, taking in the medical patches and bruising, before smiling at her warmly.

"Well, you can always pop in for a chat if you want, and if you need help around the house, Quinto's available."

"_Mama!" _came the boy's indignant call, making the mother let out a loud, happy laugh.

**0 0 0**

Silvestro paused at the low wall of mailboxes before her building, fingers trailing until she felt the _No.27_ box, an envelope peeking out, crisp white and a bit soggy at the corner from rain. Her stomach was still warm from the coffee and food Amelia had all but shoved down her throat, happy smiles and all, and she felt the most relaxed she had in months, the ache in her shoulder all but forgotten.

She pulled the letter free and rushed into the building, feeling droplets begin to come down on her dark crown. Her hand played with the envelope and flipped it over as she climbed the stairs, before a frown touched her lips, the sender's name smudged by rain, but readable enough to smother the once happy mind.

_From: Goffredo Russ_

The stairs ended four floors up, and she shoved her letter into her pocket before moving on, rathering not to read it and spoil her mood. She paused, however, and blinked in caution and confusion as she came upon a rather curious group of paper bags sitting at her door. She approached them and crouched down to peer in, a sound of bafflement escaping as a large bottle of milk and two cartons of a dozen eggs showed in one, loaves of Shepherd Loaf bread and other assorted pantry necessities whose price made the woman choke on her tongue.

She looked around the hall, trying to see if someone had just put it down and was coming back to get them, but found it empty, doors closed. A frown tugged at her lips and she knocked on the doors immediately around her, asking the people within if they had left groceries out, most of which answered a sincere 'no', one slammed the door on her, and the old lady asked her to repeat the question nine times before she gave up and excused herself.

Silvestro rubbed her nape awkwardly, before unlocking her door and taking in the bags, carefully putting them down on the little table near the kitchen window. She began looking through them again, hoping to find some sort of identification, like a receipt or a list, but instead, in the last bag, she came upon a pot plant with a little note tied to it.

_I am most apologetic for allowing my drunken brute of a companion ruin your day; it was horrendously unsightly of me to allow for such a travesty to take place on my watch. A Roman Gladiator must have their fill and you, my lady, are no exception. So please, take these gifts as an apology, and these Peace Lilies as a sign of goodwill from this blundering fool._

_\- R_.

Silvestro stared at the note for a moment, supremely confused, before gently taking out the plant and placing it down on the windowsill with the cracked glass, causing the light to refract oddly upon the thin, green leaves.

The next day, Silvestro's kitchen was heartily stocked and little, white bulbs were reaching for the sun's shine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

“I’m sorry,  _ what  _ happened?” Dr Orazio asked through the phone, Silvestro leaning against the kitchen wall as she held it against her ear, coiled cord swaying as she fidgeted.

“I got held at knifepoint by a man in the park, and got a rock thrown at my head by some kids.”

“...Giulio get the car!”

“Doc, calm down, it’s fine! I’m fine,” she stressed, regretting telling the man her latest involvements. “It’s not like I’m dead!”

“You got a  _ rock  _ to the  _ head!” _

_ “She got what?!”  _ Giulio snapped from far away.

“I’m fine- tell him I’m fine!”

“Well, I don’t know that, now do I? I have to check for myself, as a general practitioner, before I can make that verdict,” the man huffed, the sounds of his de facto husband searching for the car keys clattering in the back.

“I’m not going to be able to stop you two, am I?” Silvestro sighed, fixing her shoulder a bit.

“No. We’re coming now. Would you like me to pick up something from the shop on the way?”

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro sighed as she read through the newspaper with boredom, red pen in hand hanging uselessly. She was trying to find a job, rather urgently, for there were bills, but there weren’t any paychecks to combat them, leaving her to grumble over part-time vacancies in places much too far away and pays far too low. 

The ex-militant leant back into her chair with a groan and took a drink of some rather watery instant-coffee. It wasn’t her best brew this morning, but it was better than what they got back in the barracks, so she was fine with it.

The little clock on the wall ticked away and tapped at her skull, the bump from Quinto’s assault a week ago having finally gone down and depleted with the headaches. She sighed and rubbed at her nape before getting to her feet and stretching out her back, a grumble flowing from her throat as she looked to the time. 

Silvestro knew she needed more clothes than the ones on her back, her uniform and two spare changes, so she whined to herself as she began gathering her things to head out. Her keys jangled as she shoved them into her pocket and stepped out into the street, the local ‘gang’ of boys, including Quinto, side-eyeing her before disappearing into an alley.

She snorted at their actions before continuing on without care, making mental reminders of her build’s larger sizes as the colourful boutique signs peered out from the greyed Autumn sky. Her arm ached as eyes trained on her the moment the bell rung out, making her lips thin as she nodded in greeting to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

A breath whooshed out of her as she began flipping through racks, looking for things that were not only comfortable and looked nice, but would be easy enough to get into with only one arm. In the end, she only grabbed two plain, pleated skirts and a pair of black pants, none of the shirts here fitting her shoulders quite right.

“Well, that was depreciating,” she sighed to herself, stepping out of the store.

“Fancy seeing you here,  _ bella, _ ” the lanky man hummed, emerging from the shadow of the building.

Silvestro jumped and snapped her head to the man who had fallen in stride with her, hands tucked into his pockets casually as he watched her from beneath the shade of his hat. It was the yellow-banded fedora that she recognised, rather than the man himself, and she had the good mind to take a precautionary step away from him as she tightened her hold on her new clothes, protecting them from falling to the puddle-riddled ground should someone bowl her over again.

The man smiled at her reaction, looking politely sheepish as he let out a smooth chuckle.

“Ah, I see you recognise me then.”

“Your fedora gave it away,” Silvestro uttered carefully.

He seemed pleased enough by the answer, tipping the rim with his fingers at her as if acknowledging its recognisability. His fingers then began to absently stroke his crescented sideburns, making Silvestro take a moment to observe them, before fixing her attention back.

“Are you going to make me drop my shopping again?”

“To be fair,” he interjected, “that was my friend’s fault.”

Silvestro raised an eyebrow, expressing her scepticism through her expression.

“‘Friend’, yes, I’m sure.”

She turned and began on down the street, people bustling about in a moderate crowd as a low roar filled the place. 

“So suspicious, but I assure you, your actions against him yesterday showed him that his behaviour was unacceptable, and as such he has travelled to Bangladesh find himself and end his alcoholism. I must thank you, I’ve been trying to do that for the longest time.”

The lanky man fell in step with her as she stubbornly walked on, refusing to pay him more attention than he deserved.

“I must say, if I were any less than of what I am, that kick would have dislodged my pelvis,” he chuckled.

“And what a shame that would have been.”

“Truly, I would have missed the opportunity to speak to you again,  _ bella. _ ”

Silvestro frowned and turned mahogany eyes upon the shorter being, not liking how close he had stepped as they had progressed. 

“Don’t call me that, thank you,” she huffed, making space between them, before zeroing in on a shop she had often frequented before her discharge.

“You’re shopping?” he hummed, following her leisurely as she stepped into the store.

She grumbled and tried to close the door on him, but he managed to slip out of the way and come back up beside her without trouble. Her eyes rolled with exasperation as she watched him begin to flick through the racks, a kind of distaste in his expression as he felt the fabrics in his hands.

“Silvestro! Welcome back!” cheered the woman who stepped out of the backroom, her arm draped with cloths.

“Hi, Margaret,” she smiled, walking up to the desk. “How have you been?”

“Good, good,” the woman smiled, glancing to the empty sleeve and back, her expression saddening. “Oh, you poor girl. I told you no good would come from going out there.”

Silvestro bit her tongue and forced herself to shrug noncommittally, before leaning against the counter and explaining to the woman her new clothing restrictions. She got a nod before she stepped back and turned to the rest of the shop, startling as the fedora man was found to be immediately behind her. 

He glanced between the militant and the clerk with dark eyes, before focusing on the tall woman and offering up a rather pretty yellow dress, making Silvestro blink before taking it. 

“How do you know my size?”

The lanky, string bean of a man smiled coyly, like he had some sort of secret.

“I estimated. I got it right then?” 

She narrowed her eyes slightly, suspicious, but nodded slowly, “Lucky guess.”

His lips pulled in an amused manner before he turned and returned to the racks, off to probably search for another item no doubt, making Silvestro sigh and properly observed the dress, finding it actually quite nice. She kept it on her arm and went off to find more, flicking through tight waisted blouses, before humming and picking out several of varying colour and style.

“What about this? This has a rather nice pattern?” 

Silvestro raised an eyebrow at the man who had come back with a floral skirt, again in a flattering shade of pastel yellow.

“Remind me, why are you picking out clothes for me? Especially since this is only our  _ second  _ meeting?” she asked bluntly, but took the skirt with a begrudgingly appreciative eye. 

The woman turned back to the rack and pushed the startlingly vibrant polka dot button up out of the way to try and find something less... _ eye-catching. _

“Oh?” the fedora man hummed from behind, “haven’t you heard? It’s because I so happen to be Gustavo, World's Greatest Personal Shopper!”

Gasps and exclamations of shock and glee rattled the shop as women swarmed the newly dressed man, Silvestro blinked rapidly in bafflement as the once suit-clad man brushed his brown designer jacket of imaginary lint and lowered gold-tinted sunglasses at her in a manner that dripped with confidence.

“Gustavo! I have a wedding that I need to look amazing at!”

“Oh, please Gustavo, could you style my wardrobe?”

“My boyfriend just dumped me, help me make him regret it?!”

Silvestro opened and closed her mouth, not sure if she wanted to agree that this situation was one she was in the vicinity of, and skirted around the swarming mass of women patrons to head to the checkout, waving her hand to get the clerk’s attention.

“You should have told me that you had been chosen by the legendary Gustavo!” she gasped absently scanning the tags. “But, where did that young man with you go to?”

The ex-militant paused, before shaking her head and fleeing the store, deciding not to banter with the woman. 

“Now that we’re out, we’re going to  _ Prada _ ,” the man in the designer jacket chimed, appearing beside her as he waved off a man with an over-excited camera.

_ “ _ Oh my God _ !”  _ Silvestro yelped, stumbling a bit at the sudden materialisation. “Stop that! I thought you were still being mobbed in the store.”

“Getting out of such a little crowd of fans was easy, there were barely a hundred,” he tutted, twirling his ever-present curled sideburns.

The large woman pursed her lips before loosening herself and moving on, hearing the light tapping of polished shoes following after.

“Prada’s too expensive, I’m not going there...Gustavo?” she uttered carefully, not entirely sure if she should buy into that name; the change had been too dramatic for her tastes. 

“But  _ bella _ ,” he urged, stepping closer to her with a persuading pout, “let me style you, I’ll give you clothes that will amplify your already iridescent beauty!”

“Okay, now I  _ know  _ you’re talking out your ass.”

“Ah, ah,” ‘Gustavo’ reprimanded, golden sunglasses flashing with a camera flash. “Modesty is attractive, self-depreciation is not. Now, since we’re already here-”

Silvestro snapped her head up and gaped at the bright sign of  _ Prada _ , wondering since when there was such a mainstream, high-class store in her area as she tried to back out of the situation.

“-We might as well go in, come!” he laughed and shoved the woman headlong into the Devil’s purse.

She gave a yelp as she tried to find her footing, nearly barrelling into a rack of gold-seamed handbags, ‘Gustavo’ chuckling at her expense as he sashayed into the shop, heads turning as if telepathically alerted to the man’s presence. The woman huffed and straightened herself out, feeling her arm ache as she fell under scrutiny from women and their husbands, eyes dissecting her where she stood beside the ‘fashion icon’.

“Gustavo! Welcome, welcome, how can I be of service?” the man who oversaw the store gasped, scuttling over to them with a sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cool weather. “Are you after something in particular? A jacket? A bag? Or - or would you like to see our newest releases?” 

Silvestro watched as ‘Gustavo’ brushed off the grovelling man, pretending as if he wasn’t even there as he began to glide through the shelves of money-laced items. She bit her tongue as she was regarded with a side-eye, before the sweaty male followed his idol, not at all interested in the one-armed middle-class who had literally stumbled in.

“ _ Bella _ , come here!” the designer called, waving her over with a delicate curling of his hand.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to call me that?” she gritted out, but found herself moving across the store to him anyway, rathering his odd company to the suffocating isolation of this place.

“This Floral-Jacquard Midi Dress would look stunning on you, the dark purple and gold design, and the waist will conform to your figure-”

“No,” Silvestro denied bluntly, making the man stop.

She could feel the eyes of the store watching them, critiquing them, and the sweating man fidgeted awkwardly beside ‘Gustavo’ who had a gleam in his eye as he gazed at her unnervingly. Her lip was chewed lightly in her stress and withheld aggression, and ‘Gustavo’ smirked like he had succeeded in something secret, spinning the item in his hand and observing it with professional scrutiny. 

“Very well, tell me, what is to your taste? Loose-fitting?”

“Affordable,” she grunted, eyeing the  _ ₺31, 252.65 _ tag with near outright disgust. “I honestly don't care if it ‘conforms to my figure’ or just hangs off me, as long as it's  _ Lira  _ well-spent, and I'm not going to get that here.”

“And if I said I was going to pay?” He asked, raising a brow.

“I will kick you.  _ Again _ .”

‘Gustavo’ smiled brightly after she said those words. 

Silvestro narrowed her eyes in distrust as he began to slowly saunter away. She thinned her lips and shifted her weight on her feet as the fashion king placed the dress down on the counter, black eyes sparkling with smug glee as the nervous manager fumbled with the register. 

“I’m warning you,” she called out down the store, fixing her bag until it was further up her arm, freeing her hand. “Don’t do it. It’s not worth the pain!”

He grinned, making full eye contact with the ex-militant woman as he handed over a gratuitous amount of lira. He was obviously baiting her, and slowly, Silvestro began to nod, understanding the situation that had unravelled.

“Okay,” she began, beckoning the man over. “Come here a second, yeah?”

‘Gustavo’ bolted from the register and Silvestro chased after, vaulting over display tables as low chuckles escaped the man who led her around, ducking between racks and mannequins where her large form couldn’t easily follow.

“Come on, I promise to make it hurt a  _ little  _ less than last time!”

“Oh, how generous,” he laughed.

The man rounded a table, stacked with expensive shoes that would torture the feet, before giving a choked yelp as his throat came to be hooked around the solid bicep of the Captain, her feet crashing down as she landed from her speed vault. She sighed and put her hand on her hip as she stared down at the winded grocery-ruiner, then gaped as she was roughly grabbed from behind and yanked back three steps as the clerk dashed from the register to assist her victim from the floor. Hands kept her from moving as two large men glared dispassionately down at her, no real hate in their expressions, just near exasperation. 

“Out, out!” The sweating man shouted, face a shiny white in his oily panic. “Leave woman, this is a place for those of etiquette and class, not for ruffians and  _ viragos! _ ” 

Silvestro rolled her eyes at the scathing term, pulling her lips out of the upward turn they had taken while she had hunted ‘Gustavo’ in their cat-and-mouse in  _ Prada _ . The burly men escorted her out with gentle gesturing and grunts, seemingly pleased by her bored cooperation. Honestly, she had suffered words from stronger men in her time as a cadet.

‘Gustavo’ hummed as he popped up beside her out on the cobblestone, her steps making the loose gravel jump as she tried to literally stamp out the last flames of her temper. A virago, she was perhaps, indeed.

“Here you go,  _ bella!  _ It fits you perfectly, so you can wear it without trouble!”

“Did that whole situation mean nothing to you?” She grunted, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, making way for a woman with a pram. 

“Oh, it was convivial! The most fun I’ve had in a  _ Prada _ shop in years, I assure you,  _ principessa _ ,” he chuckled smoothly, golden sunglasses flashing with sunlight as he tipped his chin back in pride. “Now, take the dress~!”

“No, give it to someone else.”

“You don’t like wasting money, right?” the stylist tilted his head with a coy smile and pressed the bag to the woman, the two coming to a stop near a fountain. “ _ Bella _ , take the dress or I’ll burn it. I bought it with you in mind and seeing it on another woman would tarnish it!”

“Do you realise how expensive that is!?” she gaped,  _ ₺31,000  _ pushed up against her front. “Don’t burn it, you...Give it here, you bastard.”

Silvestro spoke several choice names for the stringbean of a man before her as she snatched the bag from his grip, glowering at his smug little smirk. She eyed the bag for a moment before fixing her hold on it, then turned her attention back to the victorious looking man. 

‘Gustavo’ gave a shout as the ex-militant’s shin smashed into his ribs and sent him sprawling across the cobblestone market square, a groan wheezing from within him. His assailant huffed as she gazed at his splayed out form, gasps and quiet murmurs jumping about the shoppers around them as they watched the woman stand over the downed man.

“I told you not to call me  _ ‘bella’ _ ,” she grunted, before turning on her heel and trudged home.

**◇◇◇**

“That sounds amazing!” Amelia beamed, Silvestro groaning as she slumped back into the woman’s couch.

“No, Amelia, having that guy buy me a dress was  _ not  _ amazing.”

“At least he has good taste,” she hummed, pulling the pricy piece up for display with an appreciative ‘ooh’. “What was his name? Gustavo? I should see if he has a newsletter or a magazine. Famous, was he?”

“Enough to get me in trouble,” the mountain of a lady sighed, reaching for a biscuit and let it crumble between her teeth. “Take it if you like it.”

“You’re four sizes bigger than me, it would never fit. And besides, it was  _ ‘bought with you in mind’!”  _ she grinned, lowering her voice to a mocking masculine as she leant against the larger woman. 

“Shut up!”

Amelia cackled with her head thrown back as her friend whined in misery, a hand scrubbing her face as she yawned between complaints. 

“Why is she here!?”

The two women turned and murmured greetings to the spluttering Quinto, the mother waving at her son with the dress. Quinto glared at the ex-militant in indignation, before storming out of the living room and up the stairs.

“How was your day at school?” Amelia called out.

“It was fine!” he snapped back, before slamming his door shut in a show of anger.

Silvestro blinked at the interaction that seemed to pass as the norm within the house, her biscuit still hanging from her teeth as she stared at the happily humming mother. She shook her head before snapping the rest of her treat into her mouth, crunching down on it as she sipped her small shot of coffee.

“Hey, Amelia, do you know of anywhere that has a job opening?” she asked, breathing softly over the rim of her cup.

The older woman looked to her for a moment and smiled as she shuffled over and poked her patched cheek gently.

“Is that why you look like you haven't slept well? Looking for a job?”

“Yeah, part of it,” Silvestro sighed, relaxing back into the couch. “Some other stuff too, but mostly the jobs. Not many places want to hire a woman, let alone one with only one arm.”

Amelia gazed at her for a moment, before leaning forwards and opening her arms insistently. She made to grab the militant, making her jump and squirm away with open confusion.

“What- Why are you doing that?”

“Shush and let me hug you,” the mother scolded before dragging the larger woman to her chest and squeezing her arms around her.

Silvestro spluttered, before slowly calming down and staring over the other’s shoulder with a half-contented expression. 

“Okay,” Amelia began after a few moments getting to her feet and pulling out a pen and paper. “There's a place I know that is hiring, go to this address tomorrow, and someone will talk to you about it.”

She wrote quickly onto the notepaper and handed it over to the other woman, before giving a reassuring smile at the low-simmering doubt that she saw within.

“You'll be fine, Silvestro, they're a good place. Just be prompt, and try not to stomp too loud.”

“I don't stomp,” she grumbled.

“You do, darling.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Since chapter 4 is a bit of a shorter one, I've decided to slap it out early. Thank you to everyone for leaving such lovely comments and kudos!

**Chapter 4**

Silvestro eyed the paper in her hand with unsurity as a gust of wind yanked at the treetops around her, the note folding in the gale but remaining in her nervous clutch.

She had been led around some back ways and into a large park with no one in it, dirt paths winding and outlined by flowering weeds and mushroom caps. The trees were golden with the season and left little sprinklings of natural riches along the short grown grass.

“This…” the woman began, glancing between her note and the end of the path.

The building was an old theatre for stage plays and performances, according to the little stone plaque which sat beneath the regal inscription of  _ 1771 _ . Though it said all that, the place didn't look like it was a very popular with the 1% which could afford high luxury renditions of Shakespeare and opera. 

It was by no means run down, nor was it grimy, but it didn't have the atmosphere of money like others did, with vines battling to swallow the railings which lead up to double doors. A number of people attended this place, but they were understaffed, from the look of it.

Silvestro thinned her lips and began up the stairs, vines crunching underfoot until she came to the door which was free of webs or dust, proving that it was in almost daily use, and gently pushed her way in.

Music flooded from within and swallowed her, along with the smell of polished wood and chalk. Little giggles and the loud, constant  _ ‘clap’, ‘clap’, ‘clap’  _ of an instructor led the militant by the ear up the western stairs that creaked beneath her weight. She followed quietly, _ Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy _ dancing in the air as the sound of human movement began to mix in with the notes.

At the top of the stairs was another heavy door which she pushed open, and instantly bombarded by pastel pirouettes and a familiar face.

“Silvestro! Come on in and meet your employers!” Amelia waved, making a dozen 6-year-old girls and two boys spin around and face her, leotards of soft purple and black hugging them in uniform along with ballet shoes which conformed to the foot.

Silvestro blinked mutely and shuffled into the room, the door swinging shut behind and trapping her with the tiny dancers and their instructor. Her empty shoulder ached as wide eyes stared at it in wonder and confusion, not at all trying to hide it like the adults. She shifted on her feet and sent Amelia a helpless look, who merely grinned with her arms crossed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the instructor began, giving a long, graceful gesture to the ex-militant. “Meet the lovely Ms Russ, who will be our groundskeeper and my assistant for the foreseeable future.”

There was a beat of silence before the children turned and bowed with a shaky imitation of grace.

“Good morning, Ms Russ!” 

Silvestro took a moment to buffer the situation, much more used to having throats rubbed raw with ‘ _ ma’am, yes ma’am _ !’ yelled in her face. Nonetheless, when they began to fidget, she nodded her head stiffly and responded with a too rough: “Good morning, cadets.”

Amelia snickered at the slip-up, leaving the blundered woman to nip her tongue in self-reprimand as the children tilted their heads.

“Does Ms Russ know ballet too?” a boy asked, turning to his teacher.

“Nope, none whatsoever. However, she is very skilled in other arts. Now,” she clapped her hands and the students sprung to attention. “Fairy circles, please! I need to talk to Ms Russ for a little bit, and then we can have lunch!”

“Yes, miss.” 

The two women gathered in the corner as the children began to circle the room on their toes, keeping a line.

“Amelia, what the fu-”

“Language, Ms Russ,” the mother scolded gently, though her smile didn't fade. “Oh, this is going to be so fun! Having you as a co-worker, we'll see each other every day!”

“Every day?” Silvestro gaped.

“Why yes, ballet requires constant practice! If you take a day off and you will know, take three days off and your peers will know, take a week off and the  _ audience  _ will know!”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she grunted, waving her hand. “You're the boss around here then? That's how I got in?”

“Oh, no, no, no! I'm only an employee. I recommended you to our boss last night, she told me she accepted you this morning, I was expecting an interview at least,” Amelia hummed, looking off in thought. 

“So,” Silvestro sighed, raking her nails through her black crew cut. “What  _ is _ our boss’s name then?”

“Valentina Bacigalupo.”

The ex-militant’s face scrunched up and paled at the name, making her friend raise a brow in confusion. Mahogany eyes were wide as she fled down the stairs and into the main performance hall, gaze snatching to the portrait which hung above the stage.

“Oh,  _ fuck!” _

“Silvestro, what's wrong?” Amelia asked, coming up beside her with worry.

“That’s my fucking aunt!”

**◇◇◇**

“No note, no letter, you just disappeared off to join the army! I haven't seen or heard from you in nearly nine years!” Valentina Bacigalupo scowled, tapping her finely glossed nails on her desk, Silvestro shrinking into the chair across from her. 

“Well, good to see you too,” she pouted, before hissing as a feathered fan came down in the top of her head.

Valentina Bacigalupo was a terrifying woman of regal posture and cutting glares. Her body was a well-trained instrument of music and flexibility, with years of the fine arts buried into her bones. She was the very essence of a  _ primadonna _ , and had aged like vintage wine, the air that wafted off her skin stinking of talent that came from years of tearing muscles and icing sprains.

Her hair was a light timber that had paled as she grew older, and was pulled into an elaborate bun of braids and smooth curves. Eyes of familial mahogany were set within a delicate yet intimidating shape, her nose long and face slightly rounded. She was the epitome of beautifully terrifying, and she loomed over her militant of a niece who tried to slip under the desk and hide.

“Your sass is not appreciated, young lady!” The primadonna scolded, drawing her fan to her chest as she looked down upon her niece. “Look at you, all banged up. The military spat you back out after it chewed you up, huh? As a place of men would to a young woman.”

“I’m not that bad, aunty,” Silvestro tried, but ducked under another swipe. 

“I thought you were taught to hold your tongue in that place, Silvestro!” Valentina snapped, before stepping around the desk and used her fan to tip the ex-militant’s face up. “Now….let’s see. You’ve taken after the Bacigalupo side of the family, good, your father is an ugly man with a lazy soul. It’d do you no good to look like him.”

The mountain of a woman huffed, used to the regal dancer tsking at her little sister’s taste in spineless men. She paused as a hand came to lay on her shoulder, and she looked to her aunt to see the old, hard face softened, something she smiled at as she leant into the older woman’s one-armed hug.

“I’m glad you got back alive, if not in one piece, Silvy,” Valentin sighed, pressing a light kiss to the top of bristly black hair that was shades darker than her own. “And still as much of a brat as you used to be.”

“Ow, I’m being attacked!” She yelped, wincing as her ear was twisted in reprimand by the older woman.

“At least now you can’t disappear without giving me some notice as your employer.”

“I thought I did send you a letter though,” Silvestro whined, rubbing her ear. “I gave it to dad to give to you!”

There was a moment of silence, before the primadonna’s face twisted into one of disgust, her arms coming to cross as she tossed her fan back onto the table. 

“Of course that fool would abscond to give me such an important letter! The sloth would forget to die if he could! Oh, that plebeian-” she spun around and threw her hands up in the air before gliding over to a portrait which hung upon her wall. “I only ever loved one man, and he died married to his work. If Gessica had just followed the example, she would have been so much happier!”

Silvestro sighed as she looked upon the oil painting of her aunt’s idol crush, before slumping into the chair she had been confined to with a groan, preparing to listen to the speech that she had heard since she had entered possible dating age.

“Aunty Valentina, what am I meant to be doing exactly?” she asked, gently nudging the woman back into focus from her fanatic’s haze. “Like, what exactly are my jobs here?”

The primadonna cleared her throat and returned to her desk, fan laid down to instead take up a set of keys, which she handed over to the ex-militant elegantly, the light clink of the keys barely disturbed. 

“As Amelia may have told you, you are going to work as both a groundskeeper and her assistant for the classes here at  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup.  _ You’ll be required to do maintenance where you can, and file reports and organise professional intervention for damages or repairs where you cannot. Garden upkeep is up to you as well.”

A slip of paper was handed over to the younger woman, who took it up and read through the weekly wage for her main and side job. It wasn’t much, less than what Amelia might have been getting for her time as a ballet instructor, but it was more than enough for Silvestro to live off of in her small apartment, especially since she lived alone.

Her savings from her time away and in Congo were still pretty fresh, and she had only touched them briefly in her return. Having this pay along with her last will leave her with a good sum in her savings account and enough to survive, which was honestly all she could ask for.

Silvestro nodded, not bothered by the high level of physical labour that was being dumped into her lap, though, she avoided her queries about the amputations limitations. She was getting this job pretty much no questions asked, and something like this coming again was a long shot that she wasn’t willing to chance.

“Your hours as 12pm to 8pm, Mondays to Fridays; and 6am to 4pm Saturdays. Do you have any questions?” Valentina asked, getting a slow shake of the head. “Good, now, tell me about all the things you’ve done while you were away.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Winter was proving to be a cold yet sunny one, though there were stretches of December weeks in which the sky was overcast into a single white expanse. A light dusting of snow powdered the cobblestones of Venice, making the slopes a perilous journey as well as an adventure for the youths to clamber up and ride down on the seats of their pants or cardboard boxes.

Silvestro yawned as the radio chattered on about the day’s updates, sun not even peeking over the horizon as the slow grind of a Saturday morning began to move the town. Her kettle was slowly coming to a boil over the stove as she chewed on her pastry. A bag hung off a cupboard handle full of a dozen of the same, shoved into her hand by Quinto yesterday as he had huffed past. 

She hummed along to the radio’s upcoming low swinging bass as she set her cup up for an instant espresso, having splurged just a little bit of her new paycheck to buy one of the better types of ‘add-water’ coffee. It was no  _ Kopi luwak _ , by any means, and the upper class in their white stone mansions would probably have gagged like children with cough medicine if they tasted it, but Silvestro waited with a bit of a bounce anyway.

The ex-militant peered at the clock on her wall and sighed, seeing it dawdle around half-past the hour of five just as her kettle began to squeal. 

**◇◇◇**

The woman crouched amongst the frost-slicked grass of the grounds of _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup,  _ her expression unwaveringly still as she gazed down at a little quail that lay on its front, wings tucked in tight and body stiff. 

The little bird wasn’t moving, but Silvestro knew it wasn’t dead; not quite, anyway. It was the nearest something of its fragility could get, however, the lacklustre, sparse breaths and occasional twitch of a shiver showing how life was slipping from it. Crystals of snow were clinging to its feathers and greedily drinking away its warmth. The bird rested its breast heavily on the frosted earth in its exhaustion.

Silvestro continued to watch it over her arm that was wrapped around her knees, mahogany eyes glazed in a kind of glassy past regard. Her glove offered her protection as she grabbed the common quail off the ground, feeling it sag and crumble under her grip, too weak to fight back. She trudged through the slow-growing grass back to the waste disposal at the back of the  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup _ and dropped the bird. 

It chirped as it landed in a box she had stuffed with shredded newspaper and other amenities, burrowing deeper as she brought the small cardboard cradle to her chest as she ascended the stairs. Her footsteps attracted the children and their squeals of excitement arrived to crowd around her, their little eyes trying to peer into the box.

“See, I told you there was something!” a little Germana snuffed, crossing her arms as her brother pouted at her.

Silvestro shuffled unsurely, the mass of inquisitive children blocking her from going any further into the building. She spied Amelia grinning at her from across the sea of ballerinas, the woman watching her plight with amusement as the beings no higher than the ex-militant’s hips trapped her better than boarders. Her face fought to remain stiff as a younger girl tugged on her coat, making her kneel shakily until the dancers could see the quietly tweeting quail, gasps and ‘aw’s’ spilling from them as they stared down at it with wide eyes.

She stayed like that for a couple of seconds, before getting back to her feet, causing them to take a step back and crane their necks up at her.

“You should all get back to practice,” she murmured, before shuffling through them as carefully as she could.

“Everyone say thank you to Ms Russ for saving the little birdy,” Amelia smiled, clapping her hands together.

_ “Thank you Ms Russ!” _

Silvestro hugged the box tighter and looked away from the group, blaming her happy hue on the cold. She nodded quietly, allowing the young dancers to begin running back up the Western stairs to their practice rooms, leaving her with their teacher and the slowly recuperating bird.

“You need more emotion in your voice if you ever want to connect with the kids, Silvestro!” Amelia exclaimed, coming over with the soundlessness of her pointe shoes. 

“I’m talking with emotion,” Silvestro denied, frowning at the woman who looked down at the quail. 

“Yeah, the emotion of a slab of cold meat, maybe.”

The woman thinned her lips at her co-worker and friend in a show of annoyance, getting a giggle out of her before she danced off to the staircase.

“Get back to your students, Amelia,” she grunted, before thumping down the hall and away from the gentle laughter.

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro sat in the corner of the dance room patiently, listening to the music jump in predictable but pleasant beats.  _ Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy _ bounced about the room’s hardwood floors while young girls and boys danced on the balls of their feet. Their instructor clapped in time to keep the less perceptive students on track, uttering the times to them as they followed an array of motions and steps to an amateur's degree.

“Wonderful!” She smiled, clapping for their cease. “You’re all doing remarkably well so far! Now, before we finish for the day, are there any final questions?”

The sun was riding low for a Winter’s early coming night, bleeding the clouds peach over their school’s old walls. It had warmed with the evening, but there was still a bite to the air and Silvestro found herself dreading to leave the rather warm atmosphere of the classroom.

“Oh, Miss Maddalena, could you show us a lift? I saw one last weekend and they made it look so graceful!”

“A lift, hm?” She breathed, looking over her shoulder to her teaching assistant.

Silvestro caught on in a moment and began shaking her head insistently, real panic in her expression.

“I’ll  _ drop  _ you!”

“No you won’t, just have a good hold on my waist. We’ll even do one I know you can do. Come here,” the woman laughed, grabbing her by the hand and turning to the front of the class. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, Ms Russ and I are going to show you a Shoulder Sit.”

“We’re going to  _ try _ ,” Silvestro grumbled behind her, making the woman snap around and herself to look away.

“We all know that Ms Russ is very strong, yes? It is because of this that I am sure we can handle this, but I ask that none of you attempts this out of class, understood?”

A chorus of ‘yes’s came from the children as Amelia took a position in front of her companion, placing the larger woman’s hand on her waist and pressing it there in a kind of comfort and encouragement. She smiled up at the hesitant expression and gave soft instructions, bending her knees and feeling the arm tense before she was sprung from the floor and hoisted up like a feather in the wind. 

Silvestro locked her arm in place as a knee bent under her bicep to hook the ballerina in place, an expression of elegance on the instructor’s face as she gazed down at her partner, her own willowy arm extended in a dainty reach as the other laid across the dark nape. 

The young dancers gasped and clapped in delight as they gazed at their teacher who perched like a dainty bird atop the sturdy branch of the groundskeeper. 

“This could have gone so badly, Amelia, you have no idea,” the ex-militant whispered to her friend, helping her slip from her shoulder and near soundlessly return to the hardwood floors.

“ _ Shh _ ,” she hushed, smiling at the class as she spoke to her. “Don’t let them know.”

A steady clapping brought the two out of their hushed bickering and the room turned its gaze to the back, where a dark figure in a fedora leant against a window. The man’s smile peeked out from under the shadows of his face, the pink afternoon glowing against his cheek.

“What an absolutely beautiful display that was,  _ bella _ ,” he crooned, charming the room with a smooth song of a voice. 

The children seemed to be bewitched by the being before them, gazing upon his mysterious aura with childish reverence of a movie star and bright eyes. They whispered amongst each other excitedly, a low murmur that the man seemed to be completely unfazed by - something that didn’t surprise Silvestro at al.

“Oh God,” Silvestro groused, making a face at the man. “Why are  _ you  _ here?”

“You know this man?” Amelia sighed, cupping her flushed cheeks as she swooned beside her scrunched-nosed companion.

The ex-militant glanced to her friend, trying to convey her distress through her eyes but was muted out by the woman’s taken mind as the single mother drooled after the man in the fedora.

“I heard that you worked here, in the _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup, _ and I just had to see you again,” he sighed, crossing the room like a feather. “The Winter has been so cold without you,  _ bella _ . I was a fool to think I could survive it without your grace.”

Silvestro couldn’t conceal the irked twitch of her brow as she pulled Amelia a step behind her, suspicion still simmering in her brain as the yet to be officially named being clasped his hands behind his back and tilted himself in a manner that most would consider cute, if it weren’t for how his fedora still hooded his eyes from most of the room.

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“Oh? When did you say that,  _ bella?” _

The woman frowned at the obviously coy act, Amelia peeking out from around her hollow shoulder with interest.

“The last time I ran into you.”

“Ah yes, when I bought you that lovely dress!”

At that moment, the dance instructor emerged from behind the woman and stepped to the man with a wide grin upon her face, eyes bright with humour and glee.

“ _ You _ got her that dress!? You’re the mystery man!?”

Silvestro groaned as she suffered quietly, before pausing as one of the young girls perked up from the group, raising her hand hesitantly to gain the adult’s attention.

“Are you Ms Russ’ husband?”

There was a crackling silence. Mahogany eyes glared down at the black voids of the strange man as a devious smile began to spread across his sun-kissed complexion. 

“No! Ms Russ isn't wearing a ring!” 

Silvestro narrowed her eyes in warning, his lips pulled wider. He wasn’t doing anything, she knew it too.

“If he’s not her husband...Oh! You’re Ms Russ’  _ boyfriend!” _

The class broke out in agreement, all of the young dancers unanimous in their apparent ‘realisation’, nodding to one another. 

The man grinned, looking her right at her as he angled his body the slightest bit and addressed the horde of ballerinas.

“Oh, you all must know about how Ms Russ and I met in the park then!”

“The local park? You two met in the park, oh how romantic!” Amelia squealed, fully aware of how she was irking the frozen woman. “How did you meet?”

“My friend was embarrassingly drunk, and I was trying to get him to sober up,” he began putting on a wistful voice as he looked off into the distance, like he was remembering a wonderful dream. “But he stubbornly ran out in his nightgown and slippers, making me follow until we came to the park, where he quite literally crashed into the most beautiful being to have graced this Earth-”

“Okay, now you’re just milking it,” Silvestro grunted, cutting off his pixie-dusted rendition. “You knocked me over, ruined my groceries and ran off after your friend pulled a knife on me.”

There were gasps, and she could just see their imaginations switching the scenes from fairy tale-esque, pastel pallets of golden leaves and blushing maidens, to Noir alleys, high-collared trench coats, smoking guns and dramatic music.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, before pausing as her pants were tugged, making her look down at a little girl who shuffled unsurely beside her, tiny in comparison with little hands clenching and unclenching in trepidation.

“Are- are you okay? The knife didn't hurt you...right?” she asked, and the name Susanna came to the woman’s mind as she stared down at her, her throat contracting at the fragile little thing’s presence.

“No,” Silvestro grunted, “The knife didn’t hurt me, I am fine.”

The man had begun chattering to the children, and the ex-militant decided she had had enough of him there. She stepped away from her friend and checked her pocket for the glove she had stowed away, satisfied that it was still there. Her shoulders rolled in anticipation as she made her way over, the man still charming the children with sugar-slathered renditions of brief moments together.

“-And we played in  _ Prada  _ after I teased her by buying a dress that I knew would look stunning on her. She caught me, and I was on the floor in a moment! Such a powerful woman I've found myself!” He laughed, making the girls’ cheeks become apple red in their imaginations of idealised men.

Silvestro rolled her eyes as she loomed over his crouched form before snatching him up off the floor and flopping him over her shoulder with a grunt. 

The young dancers gaped as the man flailed in surprise, having known she was there, but not having expected the woman to treat him as a sack of potatoes. Her shoulder wasn’t exactly comfortable against his stomach as he gripped at the back of her thick coat despite knowing she had a good grasp on him.

“Oh,  _ bella _ ,” he laughed, a tang of worry in his smoothed tone. “Are you going to spirit me away to an Amazonian wedding?”

Silvestro made a face of confusion and shook her head at the strange man’s behaviour, glancing over her shoulder to see the dancers and their instructor waving at the hanging man. She sighed and trudged with heavy steps down to the entry and out into the cold Winter.

“My, it’s nippy out here,” the man commented, standing beside her, shoulder to shoulder in a blatant effort for contact.

The ex-militant yelped as she took sharp steps away and looking at what she was clutching over her shoulder. The black jacket was still in her grasp, but empty of its wearer, who now stood in a yellow dress-shirt; a shock of vibrancy against the cool shades of the frosted season. 

“What are you doing?” She hissed, “How did you get out? I didn’t even feel it!”

The man let his lips quirk into a cocky smirk, hands fixing his collar before moving to incline his fedora to obscure his coal eyes. 

“It is because,  _ bella _ ,” he spun towards her and bowed in a dramatic fashion. “I am Andrei, the World's Greatest Escape Artist!”

Silvestro raised a brow for a moment, her expression speaking of being unconvinced.

“Okay, Giovani-Andrei, go away.”

She made a shooing motion before turning on her heel and retreating back to the building, ignoring the man’s squawk of indignation at the blunted brush off. The woman was halfway up the stairs when she paused and made a grab for a falling piece, her mind slowly turning its cogs as she stared at  _ Vanquish II  _ fabric. She snapped her spine straight with wide eyes, before spinning and dashing back down and out, an urgent shout on her tongue as she raised the nauseatingly expensive suit piece.

“Hey! You forgot your-” Silvestro looked around the empty path, trying to spot a sunbeam against the white landscape. “-jacket...Shit.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The first thing Silvestro noticed when she walked into her apartment at 4pm after work, was that the entire place was a mess. 

Books were strewn across the floor, her Peace Lilies were bowled over, and there was a trail of potting mix leading from said plant all across the hardwood. The fridge was wide open and beeping in misery as its content hung out of its shelves, while the glass cup that the woman had left on the counter that morning was shattered on the linoleum. Her bedroom door was creaking on its hinges, making her turn her head towards it cautiously, keys jutting out from between her knuckles in a protective grip as she made her way in.

Silvestro peered in her door before pausing, baffled at the ball of matted fur that was kneading at her pillow. Its shoulder blades visibly moved beneath its pelt of mottled orange, a kind of purr rattling in its throat that sounded closer to a rusted engine. 

The ex-militant stepped forwards and the wood beneath her feet groaned, making the cat snap around, ears high and its one good eye wide while the other was squinted shut with inflamed lids. She blinked, absently noting the lack of an upright tail, before jolting as a lawnmower’s yowl ripped from the feline’s throat, teeth exposed.

“Holy shi-” Silvestro stumbled back as the cat bolted from her bed, tearing through the apartment and launching itself out of her open window. She cursed again, this time in mild concern as she chased after it, leaning out over the sill to see if the rusted Somali had indeed just flung itself to its death, but was instead greeted by the visage of the creature bouncing from window awning to branches, landing on the footpath with a kind of blunted grace. 

It was then, did she realised that the cat had no tail, the appendage nowhere to be seen as a bald patch of snarled fur hung, still holding the sputtering of dark discolouration. 

The woman sighed before pulling her head back in and taking in the mess left behind by the stray. A grumble tumbled from her lips as she shrugged off her coat and began reassembling her home. She scraped as much of the fallen soil back into the lily’s pot as she could, the fridge already corrected and the window shut and was just about done as she set the pot back onto the windowsill, urging a lily to stay upright as she packed the mix again to support the shoots. 

Silvestro hummed lowly and played with the tip of a healthy, green leaf that tipped toward her. She grasped it between her fingers and stroked the smooth surface with her thumb. A slight smile came to her face at the plant’s resilience, knowing she didn’t have the world’s greatest green thumb and that her attentions sometimes bordered over-watering.

A mewl made her stop, dirt under her nails as she looked to the cracked glass and saw one, practically yellow eye staring back at her, watching her go about her work. Silvestro thinned her lips before turning and going back to cleaning up the mess it had made. 

**◇◇◇**

The Somali cat was there the next day, yowling at the window angrily, leaving the glass misted with its warm breath against the cold Winter. Its paws were damp with dew and snow, pelt dotted with flakes and it had puffed itself in attempts to keep warm.

Silvestro rubbed her temples as she stood in front of the window. The damn thing had begun its long-winded lecture at the crack of dawn. It was a Sunday, her only day off. She didn’t want to be awake at 4am on a Sunday.

The mountainous woman stared blearily at the cat for a few more moments, listening to the rattling pipes of its throat exclaim its hatred for the outside world, before she groaned and opened the window. A blast of icy air hit her in an instant, and she felt bad for a creature for a moment before it knocked over her Peace Lilies and made her scramble to catch it, a growl bubbling in her throat as she set it right and slammed the pane shut.

“You’re a God-damned pain, you know that?” She grumbled, turning to look at the feline who was grooming itself, already settled on her couch. “Made yourself at home, I see.”

Silvestro grimaced a bit at the chill which slipped through the crack in the windowpane and pulled the curtains shut to block it out. She paused when the matted cat spun and looked at her faded red shades before giving warning grunt.

“Don’t even think about it, you fuzzy bastard.”

The cat turned its head and continued to knead her couch, it’s one good eye continuing to observe her.

The ex-militant yawned widely before trudging back to her room, intent on getting more sleep, not one to go to church like the majority of her neighbours. Her sheets were invitingly warm as she climbed back into bed, pulling the wrapping around her as she nuzzled blindly into her pillow, quick to drift off-

The screams of a four-legged demon and the sound of a shattering plate made her roll onto her back and curse every gene in her body which dictated she be a socially driven creature.

**◇◇◇**

She had  _ bought  _ him a  _ bed _ . She had  _ spent money  _ on him. But  _ he  _ preferred to drag an empty cereal box under her bed and not come out for three hours.

Silvestro sighed and rubbed her face as she resignedly nudged the cat bed under the couch, still foolheartedly hoping that the creature would take a shine to it. Then perhaps he’d stop leaving dirt, and whatever else he dragged in, on her couch and in her sheets. 

“What am I doing?” she grumbled, sitting down on her couch and getting at least several cat hairs woven into the fabric of her pants, never to be rid of again. “I’m treating this thing like it’s mine. It’s a stray!” The woman huffed and dropped her chin on her palm, staring off to the side of her radio unseeingly. “I should take it to the shelter...”

Just as she uttered this, the rusty old cat came prowling out of her room and wound around her feet, purring up a storm. The woman looked down at the creature who, just for a moment, seemed cute. Then it started to scream again, in a way she knew meant  _ 'feed me!'. _

Silvestro stared at him and his matted fur, a breeding ground for ticks, fleas and all other matter of mini-monsters. She scrunched her nose as the cat paused his circling, rough fur rubbing against her shins, and aggressively scratched at himself all over, kicking off a chunk of dirt onto her floor.

The mountainous woman stood and grabbed her keys and wallet before heading out, intent on visiting the old thornback, Miss Marino, who had seven cats around the corner. She knocked on the door and nodded down at the woman who cooed up at her. Miss Marino’s eyesight had faded over the years, and Silvestro had a suspicion that she thought the ex-militant was still just fresh out of her teens. 

“‘Morning, Miss Marino,” Silvestro grunted, rubbing her nape as the short lady squinted up at her happily. “Do you have a flea comb I could borrow? I’ve got this cat in my house and-”

“Oh, it’s little Silvy!” Miss Marino interrupted happily, “You’re looking so thin nowadays-” Silvestro was not thin. She was rather bulky. “-you need to eat! Tell your mother to feed you more!”

“...If you say so,” she agreed slowly, though she hadn’t seen Gessica Russ in… gosh, she really needed to get to sending her monthly letter. “But about that cat comb-”

“Of course I’ll give it to you, sweety! I’ve hoarded those things for years. I keep losing them around the house with these blasted eyes of mine, they must be in the hundreds now,” the thornback tutted, waving away the question. “But if you could do something for me? The window on the top floor’s jammed somehow and I haven’t been able to get it to close for days.”

“Yeah, I can do that, no problem.”

“Wonderful!”

The large Russ woman was quick to solve the window situation and pulled it shut on its frozen hinges, a kettle employed half-way through. She nodded in thanks as she was handed the cat flea comb and a tupperware container brimming with Carbonara.

“A tip for your new cat, my dear? Use a mild dish soap if you’re hard up for a quick soap.”

“Oh,” Silvestro blinked, readily taking on that information. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

“Come back soon, Silvy! Mr. Kelp misses you!” Miss Marino waved, with said Mr. Kelp chewing on the leg of a table.

“Bye Miss Marino, I’ll see you later.”

The Russ woman returned home to find Ruggine rubbing himself on her carpet and gnawing on his shoulders. She grunted and thumped into her bathroom, setting the plug into place and spinning the taps on warm. As the water pipes rattled and the water began to rise, Silvestro walked to her kitchen and pulled out a bottle of dish soap.

The cat comb was on the kitchen table and its subject was sniffing it curiously, slapping the metal comb occasionally to see if there would be retaliation.

Silvestro stared. “Bath time.”

The hulking cat looked up, single eye wide. He bolted.

“No, you need to take a bath and stop leaving your crusty shit all over the apartment!” she shouted, giving chase. Silvestro grabbed the feral creature out from under the couch and hung him by his nape as he yowled and hissed, hind legs kicking at her arm. “Oh hush, you’ll feel better when you’re not a little grease ball.”

The rusty feline wriggled around until Silvestro squished him to her chest. He paused and just let himself be squashed, face folded up in fat folds. 

“See? Not so bad,” Silvestro huffed before crossing into the bathroom. She hooked her foot around the door and pulled it shut, so if the tales were true about bathing cats, he wouldn’t be able to bolt and soak her apartment. “In you go.”

The cat wiggled all the way into the water, and the moment his paws touched the warm, soapy liquid, a screech that could wake the bloody  _ dead  _ ripped through the bathroom. 

"Calm down you feral thing," she scolded, before wincing as he sank his claws into her arm. The military woman bit her lip to keep down a hiss of petty pain and rile up the cat any more. She took a breath and mentally prepared herself before she grabbed a small bucket and poured water over the large cat's back.

The ex-militant grunted and grabbed the cat as it made a run for it, slipping around the sides of the bath. She pushed the creature back into the water and dumped a warm wave onto his head, trying to make as much ground as possible before he ran again. 

"If I had another bloody arm..." Silvestro scowled, rubbing her hand over the cat's coat, both to steady him and dislodge any of the looser grime. "Stay still."

The creature howled as Silvestro got a lather going with the dish soap, claws and teeth sinking into her hand and arm. She grit her teeth and bore it until he pounced and made to leap.

"Don't you fucking-"

Shampoo bottles and the toothbrush cup fell from the shelf as the cat ran, splatting about the room like an especially soggy pinball.

"Cat  _ please,"  _ she urged, bringing him back to the water where he yowled like it was the end of days. 

Silvestro winced as the Somali scratched down her arm, soap getting into the shallow wound and stinging. She grumbled and squeezed more detergent onto the cat’s fur, scrubbing across his matted hair until knots and tangles started coming undone around her fingers and clumps began to drop to the murky water.

“Calm down, little beast,” Silvestro grunted, trying to keep her voice even as the creature whipped around and made to bite her hand, only for her to push his head out of the way and dump a bucket of water over him. 

The woman frowned at the bucket’s bottom, already seeing first and a disturbing amount of pests sticking to the bottom. She looked down at the cat that hissed and spluttered, likely having got soap in his mouth and shrivelling at the taste.

“Gotta refill,” Silvestro warned him, this time not stopping the feline as it pounced out of the bath and violently zoomed around the bathroom, bouncing off the walls. 

The ex-militant drained the bath and rinsed down the sides to get the thin layer of grime off the porcelain. She plugged up the drain and turned the taps to refill warm water. She hooked her hand and squished the sopping creature to her chest, soaking her shirt until he stopped struggling.

“Back in we go,” she said lowly and laid him down into the water where he writhed free.

Silvestro snorted as the Somali stretched his back to stop his belly from touching the soapy water, face pulled back into his neck in repulsion, not wanting the detergent in his mouth again.

“Fussy bastard,” Silvestro huffed, scooping up suds and disposing on them atop his head in a small tower, getting a look of horrified betrayal as the cat spun around. “Just a couple more times, bud, and you’ll be free from this hellhole.”

The creature hissed and swiped at her, but Silvestro got out of the way and glared, before lathering his hind legs with the detergent. She was careful, however, not to get much, if any at all, on the raw-looking stump that once housed his tail, nor did she nudge it too often.

Silvestro was chewing her lip and working her fingers through an especially stubborn clump of ticks and tar mixed together when the cat lashed out again, using her proximity against her and the power in his hind legs. The ex-militant woman shouted and covered her eye with her hand as he slipped and splatted about the bathroom, soaking her bath mats.

Silvestro grit her teeth when soap got into the cut and took her hand off only to let out a string of curses that would have her aunt Valentina faint onto her couch.

“Head wounds always bleed like fuck,” she sneered, getting off her soaking knees and moving to the mirror above the sink, pausing when the cat got underfoot for a moment. She glared at her reflection with one eye, the other shut tight as her eyebrow bled down the right side of her face. “Always the right side. Always the right fucking side.”

Silvestro ran the tap on hot and washed her hand until it went red before pressing a warm, damp towellet to her new cut. She frowned thunderously and she pat the wound and wiped the blood off her cheek.

“Doc’s going to be  _ so  _ happy,” she grumbled sarcastically, eyeing the extent of the problem before letting out a long sigh. 

The sound of the drain gurgling made the woman turn and she shouted as the Somali dragged away the bath’s plug, chain between his teeth and flung across the room in a show of defiance and revenge. She took a breath and let out a long growl from deep in her throat before turning back to the mirror.

Rifling through her medical kit in the cabinet, the woman pulled out a roll of medical tape and closed the wound on her head, muttering about unnecessary and dramatic bleeding. She frowned at her reflection, all beat up, before shaking her head and returning to the yowling demon who ripped at her toilet paper roll.

“You’re nearly done, you bastard,” she assured through gritted teeth, before lowering the creature back into the warm water. “Just soak there for a second, okay?”

Silvestro took a long breath, her chest swelling in a calming manner, before she looked about her bathroom. It was like a natural disaster had hit it, and a headache formed in the woman’s temple as she thought about how she’d need to clean this up after she was done with the cat and her head.

“You are more trouble than you’re worth,” she sighed looking down at the rusty coloured creature that had become docile, floating like a wet mat in the water. “Oh,  _ now  _ you’re happy to bathe!?”

The cat let out a happy noise, eyes closed in content as it soaked in the warm water, ears flickering now and then. 

Silvestro groaned before spluttering and picked a cat hair off her tongue, making a face of discomfort. She eyed the creature that gave motor-esque purrs, the sound rumbling through the room like she had just revved up a Victa lawnmower from Australia. 

“Just sit in there,” she grumbled and began to pick up the fallen bottles around the place.

Silvestro had fixed the catastrophe if the bathroom and changed her damp shirt out for a dry one. She dabbed the cut splitting her right eyebrow with disinfectant and alcohol and held it shut with two thin strips of medical tape. She grumbled and the sound was joined by the little beastie’s purring which she sent a sideways, half-hearted glare.

“Time to get out and dry off, tiny bastard,” the woman declared and the cat gave her a withering look. He yowled and hissed as she lifted him out of the bath, but didn’t lash out at her beyond a light swipe or pathetic kick. “Oh thank God. You’ve tired yourself out.”

Silvestro lowered the rust coloured Somali onto a towel and wrapped him up the way Ms. Marino had told her to, the woman muttering ‘cat burrito, cat burrito, cat burrito’ under her breath as she prayed that he wouldn’t bolt mid-tuck. The ex-militant let out a breath of relief as a pink nose poked out of the towel, mostly unperturbed by being wrestled into submission and swaddled.

“Good kitty,” she praised and a weird, warbled chirping noise came from the bundle, making her snort.

The woman picked up the bundle and walked into the living room, squishing the cat to her chest securely. She hummed lightly as a blast of warm air hit her, the heater working and ready for the Somali to laze in front of as he had done nearly all Winter.

Silvestro sat cross-legged on the floor with the cat and used tissues to wipe at his eyes and ears, pulling rust coloured gunk from his eyes with nearly every swipe and clumps of earwax from his ears. She made a face when some got on her thumb and chucked the tainted tissues into the bin before sliding the cat across the wooden floor and settling him in front of the heater where his shivering finally reduced.

“Better?” she asked, unravelling the burrito and rubbing his coat gently, the Somali’s eyes shut against the warm air and head tilted back. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Silvestro stood warily, taking a step back and dropped down on the couch with an exhausted sigh. The woman looked at her arms and grimace, red, puffy scratches lining her flesh.

“Bastard boy,” she swore, looking to the creature as it groomed itself, becoming increasingly fluffy as time went on, fur all puffed out and silky.

She sank into the couch, a nap seeming so very tempting even if the bath did need dehairing. 

Then the doorbell rang, and Silvestro contemplated murder.

“Maybe if I just sit here, they’ll leave,” she murmured to herself.

The knock came again. Louder, more insistent. 

Silvestro groaned and got to her feet again, stomping towards the door with a look of thunderous annoyance. She grunted and wrenched open her door; a short, blond man stood on the other side, dressed in a rather spiffy, pin-striped suit.

“...Can I help you?” Silvestro grit out, trying to keep her irritation to herself as she tilted her head to accommodate the short stature. 

She saw his eyes linger on her scars and the medical tape on her brow. A frown settled on her face and she wanted this interaction to be over quickly.

“Um,” the man jolted, eyes flickering to the inside of her apartment for a moment. “The… cat. I’ve come to retrieve the cat.”

“Oh, is he yours?” Silvestro blinked, looking over her shoulder to the rusty Somali that was licking his leg, spreadeagle in front of the heater. 

“Well, no,” he admitted, a door opened down the hall. “He belongs to my employer - Look, can you just give me the cat? I can pay if it’s so much trouble.”

There was a loud, purposeful cough and they both turned to find the three old men, who gathered to play cards and dominos every afternoon, eyeing their interaction. They were looking at the suited man with an expression of distaste, muttering to one another.

“Everything okay, Silvestro?” one of them asked, arms crossed and intimidating despite barely reaching either of their shoulders.

“There’s no problem, sir,” the suited man denied, before turning back to the woman, who had begun to shift her body language to fit her rising suspicion. 

“Who is your employer?” she asked, a severe frown settling onto her face.

“...I’m not obliged to say,” he uttered, and Silvestro’s ire rose.

“Then, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the cat,” she grunted, “Not with a clear conscience. I’ll hold onto him until your ‘ _ employer’  _ is a bit more transparent.”

Just as she said this, the very same rusty old cat came purring up to Silvestro, maximally fluffy. The cat rubbing his jaw against her shin and threaded through her legs, before snapping around and hissing at the man in the suit.

“...Looks like he’s against going with you too,” she huffed, cat sitting between her feet.

Four more doors opened around the hall and the man grit his teeth under the intensity for multiple eyes, each one scrutinising him and his expensive clothes. 

“Look, lady, I just need the cat. If I don’t take it now, someone else will,” he seethed, speaking through clenched teeth.

Silvestro was unaffected, expression stern as a drill sergeant until the man huffed and stormed down the hall, the cat between her feet yowling after him as if to say ‘ _ good riddance! _ ’

The Russ woman sighed and looked down to the creature, watching how he groomed himself. The Somali yawned before tilting his head back to see her too, and he made a couple slow blinks at the woman, his eye squinted in smug satisfaction.

“I feel like you’re going to be more trouble than you're worth,” Silvestro sighed, but only lent against her doorway. The Somali prowled the hall and a small group of children gathered to pet him, single mothers and tired fathers singing his praises as they finally got to sit down that day.

  
Silvestro scoffed and twitched her brow, feeling the tug of medical tape. ‘ _ Precious fur baby _ ’ indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Silvestro tinkered angrily with her pencil, the shaky font printed onto the lined paper making her temper bubble beneath her skin as frustration welled in the base of her spine. Her name was scrawled again and again in a Primary School practice, her pride receiving a booting as she failed to control the length of the letters, the tails of I’s and L’s extending past the lines. Her scribing was either too crammed together or too far apart, each attempt making her feel more backwards and cramped than the last as her hand refused to accommodate the pen, like her right used to.

She brushed her hair back from its shaggy drape for a moment, feeling an unsatisfied tension in her phantom right arm as her brain tried to force nothing to move like it was something. She let out a growl and chucked her pen away; the thing clattering loudly on the ground before it was quickly descended upon by the rusty beast that was the cat that had dragged itself in. The woman huffed and leant back in her chair, hearing it groan beneath her weight as she watched the thing play.

“Oh, you’re back.”

Silvestro stared as the cat flipped the pen around before pinning it with its paws, eye blown wide with interest as its little rat-tailed stump twitched beneath the reddened skin. She pursed her lips as she continued to examine the injury, not quite liking how the feline’s fur stood on end now and then when it was stimulated in any sense.

“What exactly happened to you?” she murmured, making the rusted creature pause and turn a single gaze upon her. 

The inflamed eyelids made her frown and look to the clock, the hands showing just past four and provoking her to get to her feet and shrug on her coat and boots. Her keys jangled as she unlocked her door and shut it behind her, plans formulating in her mind as she trudged through the light snow covering the footpaths.

Fish is what she’d need to get first, she could probably get something canned from Aurelio’s, and if she played her cards right, she could slip the thing something like the cat equivalent of Nyquil as a light sedative. Silvestro could probably wrangle that cat with her one arm and drag it off to the local veterinarian herself, but she knew that she would do the thing more pain in the process, and bumping its tail of no-doubt near exposed bone would be a catastrophe in the making.

“Can I drug it?” she wondered aloud, touching her chin in a motion of inquisition.

“Oh, what could you be plotting this time, bella?”

The ex-militant bit her tongue in her fright, hissing in a moment of pain as she whipped her head to the fedora-donned man who was making a rather weak effort in withholding his amusement. She glared at him as she nursed her tongue within her mouth, wondering just where he had come from. 

“Oh dear, bella,” the man hummed, stepping closer to examine her face, making the woman draw herself back a slight bit. “Is that a new patch? Whatever happened this time? Did you brawl in the park again? A deadly standoff?”

The cut on Silvestro’s brow stung and though she thought she had gotten used to it, the single stitch Dr Orazio had sewn in place tugged at her skin. 

“No, I don’t randomly fight,” she snipped, “Could you step back already?”

The man raised his hands in a show of apology and submission under her anger, though there was an obvious smirk of amusement that played on his lips and made his cheeks cave in the slightest of dimples, sideburns bouncing at the minute retreat. 

Silvestro paused and looked to the dual-limbed man for a moment, then an idea snapped in place within her mind and she let a conniving grin pull her lips. She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward, leaning towards him with enthusiasm.

Their closeness allowed her to see how the man seemed to waver between coy and confident, like he wasn’t quite sure which to express to her as he narrowed his eyes slightly to convey some kind of smoulder. Silvestro was too busy being proud of her problem-solving skills to bother with this Giovani-Andrei’s weird mannerisms, fully ready to use his abled-ness to her advantage.

“Brilliant! Come with me!”

She didn’t give him time to respond before she whipped them around and began dragging the lanky bean of a being at full speed back to her apartment, ignoring his spluttering as he tried to save his hat from disembarking from his head as she yanked them around a corner. The woman made sure he was standing firmly beside her before she released his wrist to key open her door, quickly tugging him in and shutting it behind her, a victorious look displayed on her face.

Fedora man looked about the place before turning back to her, head tilted to the side slightly in a manner that statistically increased visual attractiveness. He let his lips curl invitingly and made steps to close the space between them, but was quickly abandoned at the door as Silvestro started making clicking noises with her tongue.

“Kitty, come here, kitty!” she called and was met with a meow that sounded like nails being shaken in a tin can, along with the tapping of claws in hardwood as a rust-coloured cat emerged from her bedroom. “There you are!”

Then the cat proceeded to retreat back into her room without further investigation, leaving the woman to drop her arm with a huff.

“He knows something’s up,” Silvestro turned to face the man who had stood mutely behind her, “But that’s why you’re here, Giovanni-Andrei-whatever. You’re going to use those arms of yours to catch that cat.”

The stringy man stood there for a moment, slowly buffering what the woman had said to him, realising that this ex-militant had actually not brought him to her little apartment to seduce him - but to instead...help her grab a cat.

He felt his lip twitch despite himself and reached for the brim of his fedora to conceal the ripple in his veil.

“Why of course I can help you, bella! For I am,” Silvestro turned from chasing after the feline and had no time to control the guffaw that burst from her throat as she took in the sudden change of gear. “Maxwell, the World’s Greatest Animal Catcher!”

The corks in his brimmed hat swayed as the man posed, pole-net that was slung over his shoulder just barely missing the ceiling light. A pouch of supposed anti-venoms clung to his hip, tags containing the names of ‘Redback spider’, ‘DeathAdder’, ‘Black Mamba’ and others clinking as the strange being assembled himself to follow the creature, his mysterious didgeridoo theme that seemed to materialise with his dress only slightly overpowering the hysterics that he had left Silvestro in, who had taken refuge on her couch.

“Knock yourself out, ‘Maxwell’, just try not to get too beat up by the cat,” she snickered, watching him go to battle with foolish confidence. “I’m gonna buy some canned fish for it to chew on, I’ll be back!”

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro rolled her eyes as the box in the man’s hands rattled with violence and vengeance, the shrieks of the creature barely fitting within making people look at them with variants of disapproval and confusion. He was scratched up, to say the least, and had spent the time she had snuck canned tuna into the box smoothing out his poor sideburns, one of which had been chewed on by the beast. 

“It didn’t cause you too much trouble, did it?” She asked, glancing to the quietly brooding man, who had re-donned his normal gear of fedora and suit. 

“No, no trouble at all~!” He laughed, face lighting up as if flipping a switch, which made Silvestro’s expression portray one of deadpan.

“...I’ll ask for some disinfectant when we get to the vet,” the woman sighed, making the strange, stringy male strangle a chuckle from under the crisscrossing scratches on his face, hands reddened from the nips and claws.

The cat in the crate continued to fight his confines all the way up to the animal clinic’s door, the young girl behind the desk looking on with wide eyes from beneath her large frames as Silvestro came to loom over her desk, expression closing up as she regarded the youth.

Large eyes dropped from her bandage patched face to the empty, swaying sleeve of the woman’s coat, an ache pulsing at the recognition that made the soldier hold a grimace.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The receptionist blurted, smiling up at her as she squeezed her pen.

“I found a stray cat who’s been banged up and was wondering if your vet could take a look at it,” the woman stared for a moment as the young girl read through the appointments for the day, before tacking on: “Do you have trousse de premiers secours? This guy needs it.”

The girl blinked, her smile frozen on her face as she buffered slowly through what she had heard. When a minute had passed, Silvestro looked up and turned to the fedora man behind her, who was looking rather amused at the silence.

“Shut up,” then she returned her gaze down at the girl and corrected herself a touch too roughly. “I meant the first aid kit. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, we do- I’ll go get it for you and tell the vet you’re here. Um, does your cat have a name? For the records.”

The ex-militant opened and closed her mouth for a moment, before looking to the rattling box and the rust-nail screeches that the feline belted out.

“Ruggine.”

As the girl walked off, the man put down the shaking box beside the seats they had claimed in the corner, a grunt coming from the mountainous female as she shifted her hollow shoulder a bit. She rubbed her shoulder a bit, trying to sooth its tension and persuade her brain to end its phantom pains. 

“You speak French, bella?” The weird being beside her smiled, tilting his head towards her with interest. “Why didn’t you tell me you had so many talents?!” 

Silvestro pulled a bit of a face and sat still as she listened to his seemingly endless enthusiasm for prying. 

“I served in Congo for a few years,” she uttered carefully, before glancing to the pocket of her coat. “And my father often moved between France and Italy, so I spent a lot of my holidays there.”

Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell’s expression moved further and further in its pleased phase, and it looked more like he was being praised than receiving a one-armed woman’s reason for speaking another language.

“So, that’s the reason I said ‘trousse de premiers secours’. I’ve gotten used to saying it in French, rather than Italian from my time in Congo; it’s the ‘official’ language, however, there are others spoken.”

“How long did you serve in Congo? I didn’t know Italy participated,” the man pressed, leaning closer with interest.

“Italy didn’t participate directly; I served under the UN,” she shrugged, explaining as best she could. “I was in Congo for five years before, well, bombs.”

“Ah,” he hummed, lips pressed thin as he realised he may have put his foot in it, getting a stiff nod from the woman. 

They both looked up quickly as the young receptionist came back with the first aid kit, followed closely by the veterinarian, a middle-aged man who, when he waved, showed a paw tattooed on his inner wrist. Quaint.

“Good afternoon,” he smiled, looking between the two, before turning his attention to the fedora man. “So, I heard you found a stray. In your apartment, yes?”

“It was me, thank you,” Silvestro grunted, making the man turn. “I found it after it trashed the place. Its tail’s pretty much gnawed off and its eye is infected and inflamed.”

“Oh?” the vet smiled, taking the crate from her strange company. “Has it eaten recently? Gave it food?”

The woman’s lip twitched downwards and she spoke up despite how she knew the questions weren’t directed at her. 

“It’s been coming and going for the past week, but I gave it canned tuna before we came.”

The veterinarian took a couple more questions before walking deeper into the building with the screeching cat, leaving Silvestro to take the first aid kit from the young girl with a nod of thanks.

“He’s...Not always like that,” she tried, smiling awkwardly before scamping after her employer.

The ex-militant hummed before unpacking the kit in her lap, one latch at a time, and fishing out a tube of antiseptic cream, a bottle of alcohol and some gauze. She squeezed the bottle between her thighs as she screwed off the cap before applying some to the gauze, then turned to the man beside her who had watched with attentiveness.

“You’re gonna have to take your hat off for this, stringbean,” Silvestro sighed, holding the chemical ready to swab over his wounded face.

Fedora man seemed hesitant, his smile flickering as he let out a low laugh that was designed to disarm.

“Oh? Do I have a pet name now, bella?”

“‘Stringbean’ is one of many vaguely insulting terms I call you due to your omission of a reasonable name. Hat, now, lanky. I need to get at your face.” 

He prepared to let slip another humorous comment but was interrupted as Silvestro groaned and snatched the fedora from his head. 

Porcupine. 

Silvestro snorted violently before she managed to smother it with her wrist, ceasing her wide-eyed amusement as the man slammed his hat back down upon his hair, the thing gobbling up the upward spires of black. The woman let out another raspberry of a laugh as she tried to calm herself, seeing the strange being’s face grow an apple hue as he pulled the brim of his hat lower.

“I’m sorry,” she coughed, “I just wasn’t expecting it to be so...big.”

“This is not when women are meant to say that,” he pouted, making her laugh whilst simultaneously making her feel worse.

“Okay, but seriously, I need to get at those scratches now,” Silvestro eased, pulling the humour from her voice as she adjusted her hold on the gauze. “Come on, hat off and let me see.”

“Oh, bella, someone of your experience could work around it couldn’t they?”

“I was a soldier, not a field medic. My training is rudimentary. Hat, stringbean….” she pursed her lips for a moment. “Please.”

The man remained under the shade of his brim for a little longer before sighing and taking it off, thick black bushing up when released from its confines. He huffed, then quickly transitioned the expression into one of carefully crafted blankness as rubbing alcohol was patted into the red lines on his cheeks, one bridging across the corner of his lips. 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow-”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad, suck it up,” the woman scoffed, yanking him back by the curl of his sideburn so she could dab at the other side of his face. “Jeez, I’ve had fresh cadets who complained less than you.”

“What about the ballerinas? Am I at least doing better than them?”

“They tear muscles, ice it, and come back the next day to smile at a mirror while jumping around. You don’t wanna compare yourself to them just yet,” she hummed without pause, tossing the spent gauze into a bin across the room and giving a little fist-pump as it arched in.

“Ooh, my pride, it’s been wounded! Please, tend to it too!” He cried, cupping his hand over his heart dramatically. 

“Why are you so odd?”

“Please, bella, only affection from a Russ can mend such welts upon a man’s pride!”

“Then suffer.”

“Principessa!”

Silvestro let out a booming laugh at his squawk of betrayal, her hand busily smoothing down the edges of the bandaid against the man’s cheek, combing his sideburns out of the way as she did to stop it from getting stuck under. Her grin of malicious glee remained though a bit more subdued as the mood stayed light, the strange lad’s hands coming next to be fixed up.

“Wow, Ruggine really did a number on you, hey, ‘Maxwell, World’s Greatest Animal Tamer’?” 

The man fumbled internally for a moment, before straightening and slapping a smile across his face, tilting his jaw in a confident manner.

“Well, there’s always going to be a new challenge. Otherwise, I’d grow painfully bored with it all!”

The ex-militant huffed out a laugh before she wrapped a bitten finger with a bandaid, squeezing it for a moment to make sure it stuck to the skin. She murmured something that he didn’t quite catch, but was receptive enough to pout against, making her snort out a snicker.

“There, that should hold you together.”

“Thank you, bella,” he hummed, before stationing his fedora upon his head and shading his eyes as he let his lips curl. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Destroy less groceries,” Silvestro huffed, putting away the first aid kit after she clicked the clasp in place. “Get less people banned from their nearest Prada.”

“Oh, come now, that’s our fondest memory!”

“What exactly is your definition of ‘fond’ you strange stringbean?” She laughed roughly.

A shout pulled them from their chatter along with the sound of metal items being strewn across the floor, the two glancing at each other as the slamming continued.

“That sounds familiar,” the man murmured, wincing as something shattered.

“Why do I think this is going to be a real fucking expensive cat?” Silvestro sighed.

  
  


**◇◇◇**

Silvestro sighed as Ruggine hissed and bounded off into the far corners of her apartment, probably to squeeze behind her bed and then scream when he got stuck. She grumbled and shook her hand out, having had to pry that cat’s mouth open and shove its pills down while it stubbornly thrashed about in her lap.

“Fuck,” she muttered, leaning against the counter to watch the snow blot out the town with its intensity, a storm having set in late last night. “It’s really coming down out there.” The woman shifted on her feet and craned her neck to look into her bedroom, seeing the last of a rusty paw kick its way beyond the wooden frame. “I guess we’re not going out anytime soon, huh?” 

A soft motor’s rev was her response, making her huff as she turned back to the window and lowered her gaze to the little pot plant of Peace Lilies which were curled up with the cold Winter, waiting for Spring like the rest of the town. Silvestro smiled at it a bit and felt a leaf before turning to the tap. She let her hand fill with water and held it over the sleeping plant, letting dispersed droplets rain down on leaves and stalks, watching broken lights splatter on it from the cracked pane.

“Having a nice nap?” She hummed, letting her hand drip over the sink.

Then the ghastly wails of a tormented soul ripped through the apartment, making the woman groan and dry her hand on her pants, trudging over to the noise.

“You’d think you would learn after the fifteenth time,” she grunted, pushing the bedframe from the wall and letting the dramatic ass of a cat claw his way free. “Are you done this time?”

Ruggine shook himself out and made the sound of a sputtering machine, before turning and shrugging his way back into the crack. 

Silvestro rolled her eyes and dropped herself on her bed, hearing the creature scratch around in the darkness. She huffed and squirmed until she was comfortable, absolutely ready for a bit of a nap herself- then the cat started screaming again, a paw reaching up to claw desperately at the edge of the bed like a survivor of a shipwreck.

“You know what? Stay down there,” she grunted, leaning over to look at his squished face between the crack. “And suffer.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, guys!

**Chapter 8**

Little dancers bent this way and that, trying to keep themselves warm and loose as Silvestro tampered quietly, trying to get the gas heater in the back corner of the room up and running again. She murmured as she glanced between the manual and the small knobs at the bottom, a small ‘click’ as she pressed down on the fuse.

The walls were covered with looping tinsel, Christmas cards sent in by patrons and parents of the students, as well as those given by the local retirement home hung along the frosting windows; the students had made their own cards to send in response, as they did every year. Silvestro and Amelia’s contribution of cards were propped up beside Valentina Bacigalupi’s, the woman having hounded her niece until she caved in and had donned a Santa hat for a day.

“Are you nearly done, Ms Russ?” Susanna asked, tapping up to her with a water bottle.

“...Nearly,” Silvestro grunted out. “Go back to practising, don’t stand so close.” She didn’t really know if it was safe for her to be nearby while she was trying her luck with gas and fire.

Amelia shook her head up on the stage and clapped her hands to end the break, summoning children from warming huddles. They flocked to the middle of the room, cold wooden floors biting the skin as they sat cross-legged before their instructor who gave them sympathetic smiles.

“We’ll be having our Christmas Recital soon, be sure to remind your parents to book tickets and their seats.”

Silvestro made a mental note to check her calendar for the date she had marked, remembering she had an appointment with the old doctor Orazio coming up and had to make sure it didn’t clash. She hummed as she fiddled with some switches for a moment more before snapping the knob three notches clockwise and a burst of hot air hit her with the ignition.

“Miss Maddalena, I got the heater working,” the ex-militant grunted, getting to her feet.

“Oh, wonderful. It’d be absolutely freezing in here if you didn’t, thank you,” she smiled, coming over and warming her palms in the hot atmosphere. “The studio should warm up quickly with this.”

“In that case,” Silvestro sighed, picking up the hardcover manual and gently kicking the panel at the bottom of the heater shut. “I’ll be heading back down to my shed.”

“Why not stay here?” Amelia asked, gesturing to the class that was slowly realising that it had become a more bearable temperature. “Let us keep you company.”

The bulky woman was about to respond when Susanna grasped her, two little hands grabbing her much larger one, and pulled her deeper into the room, where the other students began chattering excitedly about the quail that still cooed in her office. She shuffled awkwardly in the mass of children, trying to soften her voice like she had seen before, but finding it to come out like she was chewing on stones.

“Gentle, Silvestro, gentle,” Amelia hummed from behind, making the woman scowl in self-consciousness and frustration.

“I’m trying,” she hissed quietly.

“Maybe try less?”

The ex-militant blinked at the words before shaking her head and returning to pay attention to Susanna’s hesitant questions, huffing out answers with the bite of a gruntled dog. She felt too huge surrounded by the little beings, and felt her body squeeze itself in on itself, lest it bump and break a glass vase child.

“How is your boyfriend, Ms Russ? Is he going to come again?” Someone asked gleefully, the class perking in interest.

“He is not my boyfriend, I assure you,” she grunted exasperatedly. “And if he comes back here, I need you to tell me.”

“Why? So you can do kissing stuff with him?”

“Because he’s trespassing; which can be considered a breach of security.”

Amelia covered her smile coyly, enjoying the deadpan nature of her larger companion, children snickering as they bounced around the huffing mountain lady.

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro raised an amused eyebrow as she sat on the cornerstone of the town square fountain. The plaza was bursting with coloured lights and glittering things, a tree hauled in from the green and wrapped with decorations and spotlights. She smiled and pulled her coat tighter; the twilight letting the place glow a peached shade.

“Doc’s still the town Santa, I see,” the ex-militant hummed, Valentina coming to stand beside her in a large, fur-collared jacket. 

“Always is,” she sniffed, handing her niece a steaming cup of cocoa as they watched the plump old doctor Orazio cater to the wild imaginations of the town’s children.

The man was dressed up for the part and it fit him like it was his true self, the elderly GP having grown his beard out since early November in preparation, as he always did. Silvestro and many others in the town had come to use that beard as a way to tell the shift to the holiday season, people beginning to get a skip in their step just as the stubble began to show in his rounded cheeks.

“And Giulio’s still his right-hand elf, the poor man,” the Primadonna huffed in laughter, drawing mahogany eyed attention to the tall man dressed up in green and red, large cartoonish ears clipped over his human ones as he bent oddly over the shoulder of Santa Orazio to speak to the man. “I will never understand why he puts up with it.”

“Because the Doc loves it, so he has to too,” Silvestro snorted, taking a long warm drink of her cocoa.

“As is the curse of love,” Valentina sighed, “So glad I never got married.”

“I’m sure you would have if artsy-toes had been a little less attracted to mirrors.”

The familiar feeling of a feathered fan cracking down on the back of her head was not a missed one as the ex-militant hissed out in pain, putting aside her cocoa to clutch her skull as her aunt glowered down at the woman.

“Manners, Silvestro, remember them.”

“It is negative-six degrees out here, aunty, what the hell are you doing with a fan!?”

Valentina didn’t give her an answer and merely turned her head away as she opened her fan with a delicate flick of her hand, redirecting the slow fall of snowflakes with man-made breezes.

Silvestro snorted at the brush off and took up her steaming cup again, taking long drags of the warm, sweet drink with a happy hum.

“I really shouldn’t be giving you that,” the Primadonna sighed, looking at the beverage.

She paused and then pulled the cup to her chest protectively, narrowing her mahogany eyes up at her aunt. 

“You can’t take it back, it’s mine now.”

The aged woman scoffed at her niece’s behaviour but didn’t fight her for the cup, watching the younger woman all but guzzle her drink and hum into the cup with childish glee. 

“You’re going to get a stomachache soon,” she huffed.

“A sacrifice I am willing to make.” 

The two women loitered around and watched the town’s volunteers build the nativity scene in the square, children bustling about. They hummed along to choirs singing carols and drank from their steaming cups, before Silvestro got to her feet and dusted snow off her pants.

“Time to get to the post office.”

“You know they won’t arrive until December 25th, right?” Valentina chuckled, falling instep with her niece who trudged along with a childish spring in her step. “Checking the post office every morning isn’t going to change that. They’ll arrive when they arrive.”

“Leave me be,” the militant pouted. 

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro paused painstakingly spreading cheap chocolate spread on her toast as the little honk of mailman’s peddle bike rung out from the wall of mailboxes down by the street. The woman took in a sharp breath before a wide smile stretched across her face and she abandoned her slightly burnt toast to stomp on her boots and thunder down the stairs.

Silvestro grinned and pulled at her no.27 letterbox and grabbed a thick, handful of envelopes. There were multiple styles of handwriting on each, ranging from absolutely illegible chicken-scratch to well-spaced, curling running writing. Her cadets still remembered her.

“Merry Christmas, Silvy!”

The woman turned before giving a surprise shout as Amelia barrelled into her chest. She scrambled to catch the ballet instructor as they lost their footing on the icy pathway, envelopes crunching in her hand as the snow slipped out underfoot.

“God, you’re embarrassing,” Quinto groaned, bundled up in a warm jacket and scarf, nose going red from the chill of the morning. “Can we go upstairs now? It’s cold as shit.”

“Upstairs?” Silvestro echoed, furrowing her brow in confusion.

“Well, yes!” Amelia cheered and Silvestro barely noticed how she had been shepherded back into her apartment building, still clutching her letters. “We’re celebrating Christmas together! Family and friends!”

“Indeed,” Valentina agreed, stepping out of the snow, a bag of wine hanging from her hand. She looked as impeccable as ever as she continued to say, “I’ve lost too many holidays with you to that military camp, I won’t miss another.”

“Let’s just go!” Quinto whined, already halfway up the stairs. 

Silvestro blinked as she found herself dumped on the old, worn couch. Quinto was crouched in front of the radio and was fiddling it to life while Amelia tore into Silvestro’s kitchen, bags of produce and baked goods hauled up the stairs to be used for a Christmas feast.

Ruggine yawned widely from his place near the radiator, curled up on one of the ex-militants jackets that he had no doubt ripped from the coat rack. He kneaded the material and glanced around at the guests which invaded his domain, but paid them no real mind even as Quinto came and began scratching behind the rust-coloured ear.

Valentina poured out three glasses of wine and another of juice, handing the teen boy his appropriate beverage before distributing the wine to the women. The Prima ballerina smiled thinly as she sat down on the couch, a kind of disgruntled huff coming from her lips as she shifted her weight on the cushions.

“...It’s been a while since I’ve had a Christmas like this,” Silvestro admitted, looking at the people bustling in her apartment, a warm filling the space in a way that could only come with human company.

“Yes, this is...much better than what we used to have,” Valentina agreed, and they decided to end the topic there, happy to listen to Amelia screech about her latest hyper fixation as she bashed at pots and pans, Quinto playing with Ruggine on the carpet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years! Hope 2020 treats you well and you're getting motivated for any sort of goals for the year! My 'resolution' for this year is to actually finish a story *sweats nervously*  
Let's see how that goes together, yeah?

**Chapter 9**

The mountainous woman sighed as she relaxed into a soft armchair, the same one she always found herself sitting in when she visited the residence of the Doctor Orazio and his all but law husband, Giulio. She found herself unwinding with the familiar warmth of the place; books, framed oil paintings, heavy curtains, and warm colours making the environment cosy.

Memories of a more youthful woman of Russ made her smile as she recalled her time spent here before her discharge, when she would play with the couple’s Bracco dog, Edgar, trying to avoid the tension of her own home. That dog only existed in photos now, though, Silvestro would still find some of his treasures which he hid around the house sometimes.

“Here we go,” Giulio uttered, striding out from the kitchen with a tray of coffee and treats in hand. “Sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” she smiled, pushing herself up to help him place it on the coffee table.

Giulio was a tall man who very much reminded her of a street sign; tall, thin, and unless you were familiar with it, it would serve to baffle you. His hair was slicked back and possessed the ‘salt and pepper’ shade. His face was angular and sharp, nose hooking slightly in a manner that Orazio described as ‘cute’.

“So, how have you been? I haven’t had much chance to catch up with you since you’ve returned,” he began, serving her drink before attending his own.

“I’ve been fi-” she paused at his look and groaned. “I’ve been  _ well _ , though it has been hard getting used to being left-handed now. Everything’s made for right-handers - even scissors!”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” the man hummed, lifting his coffee cup with his left hand and staring the woman dead in the eye.

“Hush you,” Silvestro pouted. “You asked so let me complain.” 

Giulio scoffed into his coffee but listened nonetheless to her frustrated huffs, smiling slightly in sympathy, having received reverse treatment in his training to learn to write with his right hand under the strict instruction of the cane.

“And how about you? How is your store going?”

“Still going strong; people never lose an appreciation for antiques, no matter the season,” he responded, crumbling a biscuit with his teeth. 

They talked for a while longer, chatting aimlessly in moments and falling into long stretches of companionable silence as they often found themselves doing. The opening of the front door made the two look up from their respective tasks, Giulio having taken up a book whilst Silvestro had snagged herself the newspaper, and they greeted the old doctor with a smile.

“Hey doc,” the woman called, getting a jolly laugh before Orazio bent to kiss his husband’s cheek. 

“Have you two been keeping each other company?”

“Yeah, but your husband won’t let me whine about being left-handed now.”

“Oh come now, Giulio, have a heart!”

The antique store clerk rolled his eyes at the teasing, taking slow sips of his coffee whilst pointedly ignoring the gentle pestering of the rounded doctor. 

“Silvestro, are you staying for dinner?” Giulio asked, continuing to disregard his plump husband until the man pouted and went about hanging up his coat and hat. “I’ve got this wonderful recipe I’ve been planning to try.”

“Yeah, sure,” the Russ woman smiled, “If you don’t mind me hanging around.”

“Not at all,” the tall man insisted, placing down his cup. “Will you come help me in the kitchen?”

“Yeah,” she nodded and got to her feet. 

**◇◇◇**

“You’re kidding me.”

Silvestro was squat down under her kitchen sink with a decisive frown pressed across her lips, the pipes clogged and making murky water pool in the sink above her head. She sighed and set a bucket under the pipes before she began unscrewing the plastic collars.

“Something wrong, Silvetro?” Orazio asked, coming in from the living room. 

“Sink’s blocked,” the woman answered, the sound echoing in the under cupboard. 

“Need some help?”

“Nah, I can handle it.”

She hummed and released the first collar before reaching for the second, unscrewing that one as well, feeling water begin to dribble onto her fingers as the seal broke. Silvestro lurched as the u-trap fell from the screw collars, her empty socket pulsing in phantom pain as the old ghost of a hand tried to catch it. 

“Oh, fuc-”, the u-trap hit the base of the bucket and splashed rotten, foul smelling water onto Silvestro’s face. The woman pressed her lips tight to stop it from getting in her mouth. She felt her temper come to a boil as the u-trap clattered loudly. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Silvestro?”

The woman took a calming breath before choking on the putrid air, the smell of decay making her peer into the bucket and groan in disgust as the rotten hind legs of some sort of rodent floated on the thin layer of water.

“Ruggine!” she boomed, tugging the bucket out from under the sink and dropped it into the metal bowl. She just knew it was that rusty bastard who had stuffed his leftovers down the drain.

Silvestro rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand and spat into the sink. She made a noise of annoyance before trudging into the bathroom, spinning the faucet onto full blast and scrubbed her face with soap to get rid of the rotten corpse water. 

There was a rattling yowl, and the woman looked to it with a glare, Ruggine grooming himself casually in the doorway. Silvestro growled before grabbing the opening of the faucet and directed a spray of cold water at the cat. Ruggine screeched and bolted, probably off to scramble beneath the bed frame again.

Silvestro groaned and scrubbed her face again with soap, taking out her aggression on the germs that had jumped onto her. While she viciously washed, she faintly heard the door being answered by Orazio and decided to leave him to it, grabbing for her toothbrush. 

She was not at all in the mood for handiwork after that.

“Good morning,  _ bella _ ~_!”_

Silvestro paused and then turned, her toothbrush hanging from her teeth, face all damp and hair sticking to her cheeks. She stared at Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever as he stood in the hallway, smiling happily.

“Who let you in?” she asked, muffled as frothing toothpaste began to drip down her chin.

“The lovely Doctor Orazio, of course!” he grinned, and from behind him Silvestro could see the doctor eyeing the exchange with an excited glee.

“Doc! What the hell?” 

“He said he knew you! And such a nice, strapping young man, too.”

“So you take him on his word and his looks?” she huffed and the old doctor didn’t even hesitate in nodding. “How did you survive this long?”

“I had Giulio there to help me.”

“Ah, I see,” Silvestro sighed. She then turned her attention back to the strange, nameless being who darkened the bathroom doorway, hands clasped behind his back and observing the situation with a shaded mixture of lukewarm amusement. “So? What did you want?”

_ “Bella-” _

“Stop calling me that.”

“To think you’d suspect an ulterior motive! Am I not a simple man with simple desires?”

“You’re still not answering the question,” Silvestro uttered, rinsing her mouth out under the tap.

“I merely was passing by and thought it only polite to visit such a lovely woman before the new year,” he promised, 

“You could literally not be more suspicious if you  _ tried _ .”

_ “Bella!” _

“Still not meant to call me that,” Silvestro reiterated, slightly muffled as she patted her face down with a towel. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help, Silvy?” Dr Orazio sighed, wrinkling his nose at the rot-water in the bucket under the sink. “God, that reeks.”

“You’re a guest, Doc,” the woman reasoned, before pausing and turning to the strange man who smiled warily. “You, however, are an intruder...I sentence you to community service.”

“Well if this is how I’m treated, I might not come back,” he pouted, crossing his arms. 

“Oh?” she asked, a hopeful tone to her voice.

“You wound me,” he withered, before standing straight and tilting his hat slightly - Silvestro sniffed at it being worn indoors. “But lucky for you,  _ bella _ , I am none other than-”

“You’re gonna say ‘Mario the World’s Greatest Plumber’ or something, right?” Silvestro scoffed, an exasperated smile playing on her lips. “Yes, yes, whoever you want to be today, I give you permission to fuck with my sink’s plumbing so long as it’s actually fixed. Go on.”

Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever huffed in his suddenly blue overalls, fedora and suit long gone from the scene. Silvestro wondered just where he was storing half of these things.

Silvestro stepped around and over the nameless being’s legs as she made the Doctor Orazio some more coffee, the old man smiling widely as he glanced between the two. She paused and looked at him, and then the man laying on his back on her kitchen floor, before groaning loudly and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

“Doc,  _ no _ . Or I’m telling Giulio you’re bullying me.”

“He would be ecstatic,” Orazio supplied, like he was agreeing with the woman, making a long-suffering sign slip out from her. 

There was the sound of gurgling pipes before a loud  _ ‘pop’  _ was followed by a  _ ‘splat’  _ and the overall-wearing stick of a man emerged from within the under-sink. Not a hair was out of place and the odour of dead rat somehow had completely missed him, leaving Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever smelling as fresh as ever as he gave the sink a testing flush.

“All done,  _ bella _ ,” he chirped, pouring the sloppy corpse into a bag for proper disposal. He disappeared into the blind-pot of the two others in the room, and when he reappeared he brushed down his suit of invisible lint and repositioned his hat. “Your plumbing woes are over.”

“Oh cool, thanks,” Silvestro hummed, before reaching for the still-hot kettle. “Do you want some coffee? Tea?”

“Oh,” a glance to the jar of instant mixes. “No thank you,  _ bella _ .”

Silvestro hummed in acceptance, already used to Aunt Valentina turning her nose up at her jars and Amelia pretending to suffer greatly when drinking it. She honestly found it fine, if a bit dish-watery sometimes.

“I see that cat-” Ruggine suddenly stuck his head into the room and Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever turned, uttering a soft “speak of the devil and thy shall appear,” before focusing back on the woman and continued, “has been causing its fair share of disasters.”

“Ruggine is... _ Active _ in household participation,” Silvestro articulated slowly and the Doctor Orazio snorted into his coffee. 

“So tell me,” Orazio smiled, and Silvestro immediately narrowed her eyes. “How did you two meet.”

_ “Well-”  _ the lanky man began.

“Remember the call about the park?” Silvestro asked, idly stirring her coffee, adding more milk under the scrutinizing eye of her doctor. “That’s him.” She then took a long sip.

_ “Oh.” _

He felt the very moment all his kudos with the elderly doctor were slam-dunked into a metaphorical dumpster, his very existence marked high on the shit list. 

“For clarification, he wasn’t the one with the knife,” Silvestro added on.

“Oh, okay then!”

Perhaps not ‘slam-dunked’, maybe politely placed into the dumpster instead. 

Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever gave a thin smile at the doctor who now eyed him with a certain tint to his observation.

“Well, people bond through tribulation. At the very least, it’s a shared experience between you two! Already have something in common!”

“You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, Doc,” Silvestro growsed, setting her cheek on her palm as she bent forward on her little kitchen counter. “You’re, like, six feet into the topsoil.”

Ruggine came purring up to Silvestro’s leg and wound himself around her feet, one eye squinting up at her as he vibrated like a little motor. The woman spared the creature a glance before scoffing loudly.

“Not dinner time yet, Rugg. Just ‘cause I’m in the kitchen doesn’t mean shit.”

The cat yowled up at her and got up on his hind legs, pawing at her thigh, which she acknowledged with a gentle scritch to the jaw.

“Devil of a cat,” Giovanni-Andrei-Maxwell-whatever muttered, and Ruggine latched a single, yellow eye upon him. The hiss that leaked out was absolutely lethal. Silvestro rolled her eyes. 

“Back to the gallows with you,” she huffed, waving the cat off who whined and flopped across the floor, demanding sacrifice for his appetite.

The man glanced to the clock and made a noise deep in his throat, a gleam taking his eye as he checked the shiny watch beneath his sleeve. Three thirty-two.

“Alas,  _ bella _ , I must leave you now,” he admitted, dramatically forlorn.

“Okay,” Silvestro accepted.

“For I have very important business to take care of.”

“Sure.”

“Indeed, it may be a battle of life or death.”

“Bye then.”

“And may decide the path of history.”

“I ain’t stopping ya.”

The man without a name pouted at the lukewarm dismissal before straightening his yellow-banded fedora and headed for the door. His huff remained until the Russ woman came up beside him and opened the door, humour showing on her face.

“Thanks for dealing with my sink for me,” she smiled, a bit more warmth to her tone compared to the nonchalance in the kitchen. “My patience just hit zero with that real fast, it’s good you came when you did. So thanks.”

Silvestro began absently peeling and scratching at a persistent scab on her nape, awkwardness creeping in as the man continued to stare up at her, hands paused in flattening down his tie. 

“Absolutely no problem,  _ bella _ ,” he smiled, clasping his hands behind his back and he turned to properly face the taller woman. “If you ever need help, just give me a shout.”

“Which name?” she snorted.

The man only chuckled and tilted the brim of his hat forward to bow it at the lady, before ducking out the door and disappearing down the stairwell.

Silvestro huffed as he was once again left nameless, before she closed and locked the door, returning to her place by her coffee. She chatted with the doctor for a while longer, having a rather one-sided debate about a certain suited man’s eligibility. Then she stopped and stood straight, walked to the door and touched the jacket on the coatrack.

“Fuck! I forgot to give him back his damned jacket!”

**◇◇◇**

Amelia hummed and continued to stir the large pot, Silvestro watching over her shoulder as she observed diced onion sink beneath the thick red sauce. The smaller woman let her companion do so with light humour, occasionally asking her to grab something off a high shelf or similar tasks. 

The air was warm with steam and fire, the scent of garlic sticking to Silvestro's fingers and the sting of ground pepper on her tongue. The Maddalena kitchen smelt of herbs and sweet and savoury pastes, a little rack of pots growing hanging branches of parsley and mint taking the shelf of the window which was frosted over. The walls were dotted with stubborn splash stains, but showed effort and faded spots from attempted removals, ovens and stovetops well worn and loved, impressions of fingers in the gas knobs.

“Do you really have to keep it boiling for so long after?” Silvestro asked, quickly silenced by a spoon shoved between her teeth and left to be pitched there.

“You have to let the flavours blend, Silvy! Let them simmer and permeate!”

“Or you could, you know, eat it?” She huffed, taking the spoon from her mouth, licking her lips happily. “It's good.”

“Wonderful! Quinto get down here and set the table! Stop sulking in your room, we have a guest!”

“She doesn’t count as a guest anymore!”

The women didn’t know whether to be disgruntled or touched by the far off shout, but settled to keep hounding the boy to withdraw himself from his cassette tapes and come down to help them.

“Quinto, come help!” Silvestro boomed casually, pulling out a stack of plates from a low cupboard.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

“Listen to Silvestro, Quinto!” Amelia scolded without looking up from her pot. “Does it need anything?” she asked, handing a spoon to the boy who skulked across the room and huffed at the militant. 

“It’s fine, Mama,” he gritted out, before handing the spoon back and getting to setting the table with silverware. “...put in a bit more salt, actually.”

“Ah yes, the master pallet arrives!” Amelia laughed.

“Shut up- ow!”

“Don’t curse at your mother,” Silvestro huffed, after clapping the boy over the head. 

She snorted at his grumbling and began distributing the plates, the loud clanking accompanied by the serrated knife coming to cut through the crumbling crust of garlic bread. 

“Do you want to drink wine?” the mother asked, shaking the crumbs off her palms in the sink. “I have some nice reds.”

“Yes,” Quinto nodded, before yelping as he was cuffed on the back of the head again.

“Not you,” Silvestro grunted.

The boy scowled but didn’t pursue the drink further, slumping into his chair with a huff as the two older women set themselves down in front of their plates. He scowled as he begrudgingly grasped the large, rough hand of the ex-militant, holding his tongue as his mother smiled softly at her friend and wrapped an arm around her in a half hug, her other extended out to hold Quinto’s other hand and thus connect them in their dinner prayer.

Silvestro remained quiet through it but said a small ‘amen’ along with the family, if only out of respect, and began to set into the heaping of bolognese and garlic bread, a hum of appreciation bubbling within her throat as she took in mouthfuls. 

The plates were cleared of their portion within half an hour of slow eating and chatter, disgruntled discussions of school and praising of dance progress flitting about between bites of warm cooking. Bellies full and pallets satisfied, they sat around the table and sipped on drinks, humming at each other in soft manners of friendly affection and teasing jabs.

“You have to be one with the children, Silvestro. Think like a child;  _ be _ the child!” 

“I don't think I'm going to be a child anytime soon,” the mountainous woman snorted into her cup, a light tinge of red staining her lips.

Quinto glanced between the two across the table, watching from over the rim of his cup of juice. He frowned a bit, but only to force the smile from his lips.


	10. Chapter 10

**-Venice, 1966-**

The screeching of the Somali devil-cat was what drew Silvestro from her handwriting practice, the town dark with the late afternoon of an ending Winter. She groaned and got to her feet, chair squeaking on the hardwood before she pattered over to the window, which still had a crack in the pane.

“Good afternoon to you too, Ruggine,” the woman grunted, prying the window open and allowing the cat to bolt into the apartment, but not before hissing violently at something down below. Silvestro made a face at his fleeing form, seeing the cat squirm its way under her bed again, before she eyed the window sill, curiosity brimming. 

The ex-militant wrestled the window the rest of the way up and stuck her head out, expecting to see another stray cat, or perhaps a dog, but instead was met with a rather…‘ _ exotic’ _ sight. A man, in a lab coat, was clinging to the water pipe which ran parallel to the wall of the apartment building, his eyes wide behind thick, circular lenses. He was rather ragged, hair tousled, either by the climb or by nature, his glasses askew.

Neither spoke for a moment, slowly letting the gears in their head grind over the situation. 

“....Fascinating. A nonstandard Flame expression, yet standard Flame classifications are also present? A rare muta-” the man snapped from his mutterings and straightened his glasses, before latching back onto the pipe for dear life. “Hello there! I was looking for a...cat, yes, cat, about 7.32 kilograms? And you are?”

Silvestro’s mouth moved mutely, before her face fell flat and she frowned at the wall climber. 

“Why are you scaling my wall and chasing my cat?” 

He didn’t answer immediately, nor would he have gotten the chance, as a low groan of metal sounded out from the pipe. His eyes widened before he yelped, the joints coming undone and letting him tip back into a four-storey drop.

The ex-militant cursed loudly before snatching a handful of white cloth, her fingers digging into the man’s lab coat shoulder, dangling him in a rather death-defying manner that left him babbling calculations of impact survival.

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” she grunted before heaving the man up and into her window, ignoring how he complained about grazing his shins and knees on the rough brick and dumping him on the floor. “Now, again, why were you chasing my cat?”

The wall climber got to his feet and dusted himself off with a huff, patting down his slacks, which looked like they hadn’t been ironed since he bought them, and straightening his coat. 

“I wasn’t chasing your cat, I was pursuing an escaped experiment!” He declared, crossing his arms.

Silvestro raised an eyebrow, before shaking her head, her hand coming up to scratch the fading scar on her jaw.

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong side of Venice then. Nothing bizarre enough to be an ‘escaped experiment’ has been seen around here recently,” the woman lowered her hand, her shoulder pulsing under the bespeckled eyes of the ‘scientist’ who had taken notice of her hollow sleeve. “Tell me, who exactly have I dragged through my apartment window?”

The man puffed himself up, scrawny shoulders straightening as he lifted his stubbled chin. He was choosing to ignore the missing piece; she was still unsure if it made her feel better or not.

“Verde, the greatest scientist the world has ever known.”

The ex-militant pursed her lips, “not the best climber though.”

“Well,” he bristled, “if the subject hadn’t  _ destroyed  _ my drones, then I wouldn’t have had to!” 

Her nose scrunched in confusion at the exclamation, her head coming to tilt.

“Drones?”

“It’s still in the workings, the public hasn’t been made aware of them yet-  _ Experiment!” _

Silvestro followed Verde’s sudden, violent attention and huffed when she saw Ruggine gnawing at his paw pad, a low, rusted growl vibrating from within him. She grunted as she watched the feline shake itself down and begin to do its usual prowl around the house, shoulder-checking her calf as he passed as a kind of recognition.

“Ruggine? He’s not an experiment - though, he is a weird one.”

“Weird?! This experiment is a feat of human ingenuity and genetic mutation! The doorway to the future of genetic modification for the betterment and gain of humanity!”

The woman stared at him as he continued to speak, feeling the cat in question begin to wind around her legs in an endless figure eight, screeching in demand for food. The yowls of a lawnmower rattled in her ears along with the constant mutterings of jargoned scientific hypothesis.

She sighed and walked into her little kitchen, both the cat and the man following her with their tirades, and plated up three cans of tuna, draining it of its oils over the sink. The plate was barely on the ground by the time Ruggine had slammed his face into it, loud chewing coming as the scientist slowed his speech to stare.

“You seem less destructive when you’re talking,” Silvestro supplied, leaning against the counter. 

Verde blinked slowly, testing the atmosphere with narrowed eyes as he refused to acknowledge her statement. “Your findings are flawed, you have not tested it thoroughly enough.”

“It’s just an idea.”

“A hypothesis then.”

“Sure,” she sighed, “A hypothesis if you wanna call it that.” When she looked back to the man, he had already moved on from her, crouching on the floor with a pad and pen in hand, scrawling observations of the rusty Ruggine’s eating habits. “...would you like some coffee?”

Verde looked up, before giving a tiny nod, said: “Yes. Black,” then went back to work.

“I’m Silvestro, by the way. You know, the one who lives and pays the mortgage here,” she huffed, turning to the counter and pulling down the pot of instant coffee.

“Do you have any live creatures so I can document the subject’s hunting patterns?”

“There are mice that live in the basement if that works?”

“It will do for preliminary testing.”

“Of course it will,” Silvestro let out a long breath and got the water boiling, already resigned to her new guest laying on the kitchen’s linoleum floor as he muttered about the disgruntled cat’s chances of taking down a small horse.


	11. Chapter 11

The snow had melted finally. Sprouts of grass pushed out of the frosty earth to bounce about with life and vibrancy, flowers bloomed and-

Quinto sneezed violently, reaching blindly for another box of tissues to rub his nose raw with. His eyes and nose were red and dripping with fluids, the season not one that agreed with him as pollen tapped at his window, taunting him with its freedom.

“Wow,” Silvestro grunted, handing him a ginger tea blend. “Amelia wasn’t kidding when she said you had bad hay-fever.”

“Why are you here?” he wheezed, sinking into his pillows more.

“Amelia asked me to watch you for today, apparently you do ‘very dumb things’ when you’re sick,” she responded, making quotation marks around the words ‘very dumb things’ to show they weren’t hers.

“Shut up.”

“Not my fault you ran after the milkman in your knickers cause you thought he was an intruder.”

“Shut up!”

Silvestro put her hands up in surrender at the boy’s ire, his face smothered behind a handful of tissues as he desperately tried to clear his sinuses. She scrunched her face at the wet sound of the boy blowing his nose and took a step back to hand him another box as he scrounged around the emptied pack.

“Well, lunch should be ready in just a bit,” she uttered, shaking her head. “It’s still cooking on the stove, but I’ll be bringing up soon. Sound good?”

“Yeah, whatever,” the boy grunted, before shrivelling up under his sheets to hide from the pollen in the air.

Silvestro huffed at him before she closed his bedroom door and headed down the stairs, her footsteps heavy and resounding. She took a breath of the herbs that grew in terracotta pots in the kitchen, idly naming thyme, parsley and oregano from sight and scented mint from the one she pinched in her fingertips.

“I should probably water you lot,” the woman murmured to herself, filling up a cup from the shelf with water and gave each pot a generous dousing. She hummed and idly watched the soil soak it up - before whipping around and held the cup high and ready to throw.

“Wait, wait, wait-!” Verde yelped, holding his notes up in protection. “I just needed some data from you-”

_ “Data? _ ” 

“I just need some of your observations of the subject,” the scientist explained, lowering his notebook as she did the cup, though her expression remained stormy. “Just an hour of your time, half of that even, and I will be out of your hair.”

“Verde, entering my home without permission is one thing but  _ my friends _ -”

“I try not to make it a habit.”

“ _ Verde _ .”

“Fine, twenty minutes.”

Silvestro grit her teeth at the man before she wavered and extinguished the fire under the bubbling pot. A long sigh slipped out of the woman and she grabbed the ladle hanging from a hook to pour a steaming portion for the ailed boy upstairs.

“I will be back in a minute if you have so much as moved-” Silvestro turned and Verde was already seated at the family’s dining table, his equipment spread out and patiently waiting. “...Bloody hell,” she scoffed before she grabbed a spoon and tossed it onto the tray to take the whole thing upstairs.

It was precarious and took a bit of balancing, but Silvestro made it to Quinto’s doorway, where she spotted him squinting out from between the door jam, laying in wait. She snorted before she let him pinch the whole platter from her and disappear into his room, a soft grumble of thanks just audible from the mass of blankets that was the boy.

“I’ll be back for it in an hour,” she called, and all she received was the exaggerated shuffle of sheets.

Verde was waiting for her at the table, tinkering with some sort of audio recording device. He looked up as she came down the stairs and grabbed his pen, a long-suffering sigh falling from the woman as she eyed him.

“Out with it,” she demanded, dragging out a chair and dumping herself down onto it. “What do you want to hear?”

“This is Professor Verde with Ms Silvestro Russ on the Subject 007. Today’s date is-”

“Oh, I swear to God, Verde, you drag this out any longer and I’ll set Rugg on you,” Silvestro threatened, slumping into her chair.

“There is a  _ process _ . The data will be invalid if not recorded properly!”

“Oh please, you can take dot points and then elaborate later to make it all pretty.”

Verde took a breath, obviously prepared to go off on a rant about reliability and integrity, but a raised, impatient eyebrow made him cease. He deflated with a grumble and pressed a couple of buttons on the recorder.

“This is an  _ abridged  _ session with Ms Silvestro Russ on Subject 007,” the scientist muttered, and Silvestro gave a victorious scoff before she poured them both some water and got started. “Subject 007’s repeated lengths of time under your bed, when did this habit first form?”

“I think...” Silvestro furrowed her brows for a moment, idly tapping the table. “Maybe a week into his time living in my apartment. He’d come in and squirrel himself into the tightest spots he could live in comfortably.”

“Okay,” Verde scribbled something down in horrendous writing that shone even Silvestro’s sloppy switch in a positive light. “Could you name a reason for this behaviour, considering that your home in its totality is meant to be a safe space.”

“He probably didn’t trust me totally in the beginning,” she shrugged, “My apartment was warm and I provided food. But that doesn’t mean I was completely in his good graces.”

“And yet,” Verde hummed, looking up from his paper. “The Subject chose to settle beneath where you sleep. And the Subject calls for your help when it is stuck.”

Silvestro paused the sip she was about to take of her drink. 

“...I won’t pretend to understand what’s going on in that cat’s head.”

There was a lot of that in her days now, she thought. More and more people entering her spheres that were unpredictable, unprecedented and so very  _ strange _ . 

“That’s the entire point of this interview, Ms Russ,” Verde sighed, “To theorise on the reasons for why subject 007-”

“Just say Ruggine.”

“ _ Subject 007 _ has these habits,” he powered on and Silvestro rolled her eyes.

“Animals are known to help each other,” she breathed, turning her cup idly on the table. “Elephants will help a tired lioness carry her cub, wombats will make their burrows sanctuaries during fires, humans will drag animals out of floodwaters. Ruggine probably acknowledges this trait and calls for help when he knows he can’t do it himself.”

Verde hummed at her response, and Silvestro took a long drink of her water. He looked to the notes he had scribbled, before leaning forward in his chair, linking his fingers together as he rested his elbows on top of the table.

“I would like to test that theory one day.”

“Have at it,” she shrugged, “But for now? Get out of Amelia’s house, Verde.”

“Fine, fine.”

**◇◇◇**

Silvestro was sat up in bed with the lamp on her side table casting her book on a warm light. She was tucked in snugly with thick, pillowy blankets that she absolutely sank into, a contented half-lid to her eyes as she idly read.

Ruggine made a soft  _ ‘mirr’  _ as he peeked his head into the room, and brown eyes peered over her book before returning to their point in the page. Ruggine took it as acceptance and slinked the rest of the way in, bumping the door further open as he did.

“Hello,” Silvestro murmured as the rusty ol’ cat jumped up onto her bed, paws sinking into the mattress and making where he tread. 

Ruggine made another noise before stepping up onto Silvestro’s resting form, paw digging directly into her kidney and making her wheeze in alarm.

“Oh, you bony bastard boy,” Silvestro grumbled as he made himself comfortable.

The Russ woman glared over the top of her book as the cat kneaded the bottom of her ribcage with his paws, the blankets protecting her from the random prickling of claws that she knew would have needled her skin. She huffed and got a wide-eyed look from the resident biscuit-maker, before she settled back and submitted herself to being nothing more than a living heater to Ruggine.

Silvestro read quietly as an early Spring shower tapped against the window, the purring motor that was Ruggine making the air rumble in a comforting way. She had heard that cats occurred at a frequency that improved bone density, Verde had casually tossed out that note to her while stalking the feline.

Ruggine startled Silvestro from her thoughts by stepping on her book and flattening it down against her chest, allowing him to stare at her face as she drew back into the pillows in caution - her eyebrow had thoroughly scarred after his bath _ last year _ . 

“Why do you do the things you do, Rugg?” she sighed, pouty at being disturbed from her reading. 

She huffed as Ruggine purred loudly and knocked his head into her face, rumbling like a rusty, old motor as he cuddled against her. Silvestro scrunched up her face to avoid getting fur in her eyes and mouth, before eventually relinquishing her hold on her hardback and began to pet the needy cat, who all but fell into her shoulder as she scratched his jaw.

Ruggine purred and urged the woman on, tilting his head back as he laid with his belly exposed, demanding to receive more scrithes to the chin. His paw twitched and the nub that was all left of his tail thrashed against the sheets as Silvestro crooked her fingers along the underside of his jaw, big, yellow eyes squinting at her in satisfaction.

“I think it’s time for bed for us, hey Rugg?” she murmured, before she stilled as a tiny lick was placed on the tip of her nose. “...Oh my God, I love you.”

Silvestro curled up on her side after switching off the lights and putting away her book with a marker. She yawned and settled down, feeling the warmth where Ruggine laid under the blankets, tucked up against her stomach.

_ ‘Why do you think Subject 007 does that?’ _ she could just hear Verde ask as she absently curled her fingers into long, rusty fur.

“...Do you feel safe with me, Ruggine?” 

Silvestro looked down and from within the darkness, saw a single, yellow eye peering up at her. There was a soft purr before Ruggine shifted and pressed tighter to her stomach, his breaths just barely audible.

Silvestro smiled, before closing her eyes and falling asleep to the rumbling purrs and the rain softly drumming against the windowpane.


	12. Chapter 12

“So, we’re keeping it?” Silvestro asked, looking at the quail who scratched at the loose dirt.

“Apparently,” Valentina sighed, fanning herself with her feathered flabellum. “The students have grown attached to it. I believe they would riot should we rid ourselves of...Quark.”

“Quark?”

“It’s what they call him,” Amelia supplied, crossing her arms as the woman stared at the bird.

The trio watched as the young ave suddenly perked up, head snapping to the side in an intense focus before it bolted - ramming headfirst into the trunk of a tree and flailing on the floor as it tried to find up and down. They all groaned and pressed their temples, wondering why they let the children control them so.

“Anyway,” the Primadonna sighed, getting her employees’ attention. “Silvestro, I need you to go into town to get some supplies to construct some sort of housing for the thing. And Amelia, I need you to keep the students from getting too out of hand with it; make sure they keep on task.”

“Alright,” the instructor nodded.

“I can do that,” Silvestro grunted.

“Good, now, let’s get this day started.”

The ex-militant surveyed the tools she had already sitting in her shed, pulling out a large metal box which possessed quite an array. She hummed and nodded to herself, before quickly making a mental note, shrugging on her coat and beginning on her way to the town square, knowing the warehouse outlet would have the raw materials. Her hollow sleeve swayed as a light breeze went through, the salve on her patches chilling on her cheek. She only needed to wear them for another few months, by Summer her scaring should be well faded into her own skin tone and she could stop applying them every morning and night. 

Silvestro watched the cobblestones before her feet, amusing herself by trying to make each step an even amount of stones apart, missing the cracks lest she lose her own game. A frown came to her lips after a moment, however, as her skin prickled instinctively, feeling the trails of eyes follow her steps until she turned and glared over her shoulder.

A young man stared up at her from behind, not in the least familiar to the woman as she waited for him to look away or branch off from her path. Instead, he smiled, and closed the distance between them, coming to walk beside her on the path. His clothes were stylish, but ruffled; a scent clinging to him that made Silvestro’s mind jump to faded alcohol and perfume. This man had got lucky last night and was taking a rather chipper walk of shame.

“Hello there,” he laughed, possessing a confident tone that many men his age adopted. “I guess you spotted me then; sorry, I shouldn’t have stared.”

“Then why did you?” Silvestro grunted, not having expected to be launched into conversation with him. 

The man ran his fingers through his short, blond hair and scratched at his nape as he made an apologetic face, keeping in step with her as she continued on her way. 

“I- well, you’re very nice to look at, I’m not going to lie.”

The ex-militant snorted bluntly, her nose scrunching as she felt the patches tug at her skin, stump shoulder pulsing.

“Oh, don’t be like that! I really mean it!” he insisted.

Silvestro was about to dismiss the smaller being’s claims with a wave of her hand but came to a screeching halt as she felt the gentle pressure of contact on the small of her back. She furrowed her brows in confusion and looked to the man beside her, wondering just what the  _ hell  _ he was doing touching her.

“Remove your hand,” she grunted, not bothering to be polite to this boy. 

He blinked, startled, and dropped his arm to his side, stepping away and giving a crooked smile as he tried to laugh the atmosphere off, but Silvestro wasn’t laughing with him. The man coughed as she walked a bit faster, people trickling into existence as they grew closer to the town square. 

The mountainous woman clenched her teeth as the man continued to orbit her, obviously having some sort of goal in mind as he made the effort to stay by her side as the crowds of the plaza moved like water currents. She purposefully cut through large masses of tightly tucked people in hopes of losing the young upstart, going the long way around the town square to find the warehouse’s branching path.

“Hey, wait up!”

“That defeats the purpose,” she hissed to herself, before growling deep within her throat as fingers wrapped around her wrist and was used as an anchor for the man to drag himself free from the swarm of people. 

“Wow, nearly lost you there - what the hell is going on here?” he blurted, making the woman blink before following his confusion to see a variety of people sitting on the cobblestone, buckets of popcorn and assorted sweets balanced in their laps as they watched something with rapt attention.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” a familiar voice spoke, enchanting the crowd with its raw emotion. “We can’t be together; it’s too dangerous. Our worlds - they’re just too different.” 

“Oh my God,” Silvestro groaned, “He’s being weird again.”

“Huh? Who is?” the man asked, still holding her by the wrist as he paid her only half an ear, captured by the scene like the rest of the audience. 

A woman stood beside an expensive car, her red dress stark against the black Bentley, dark curls obscuring her face from the crowd, save for the soft frown which pulled at bleeding-rose lips. 

“I had hoped, after all we had been through, it could have lasted,” she breathed, making someone in the crowd whimper. “But I guess all things must end, my love.”

Despite the intensity of the scene, Silvestro couldn’t withhold the near painful roll of her eyes as Giovani-Andrei-Maxwell-etcetera kissed the petals of a rose and handed it to the woman, his fedora tipped downwards in a solemn bow. They parted slowly, a single tear sliding down the woman’s cheek as she slid into the seat of the car and was spirited away, leaving the tall man standing alone in Venice.

“That’s so  _ sad! _ ” someone wailed, the rest of the crowd following suit.

The ex-militant grumbled at the noise and began pushing through, the door to the warehouse on the far side of the impromptu audience. 

“Wow, talk about dramatic, right?” the man on her wrist joked, “I mean, as far as breakups are concerned that was pretty peaceful, but in public? Yesh, keep it behind closed doors, guys.”

“Would you let go of me?” Silvestro hissed. “You’ve been clinging to me for five minutes - and five minutes too long.”

“Oh, come on, it’s just a bit of hand holdi-”

“I said  _ off! _ ” she boomed, getting heads to turn, especially those donned with a fedora.

The woman stretched her back to loom, her expression openly hostile, but she did not tug herself free like she knew she could - he needed to learn. She bared her teeth a bit as he stared, wide-eyed and unresponsive. He obviously didn’t know how to receive such a response, mind slow to grasp the situation as his hand still remained firmly around her arm.

“A-ah....” the man tugged on her, lips twitching into a desperate, last-ditch effort smile. He pulled again before a flash of panic slipped through his eyes; Silvestro wasn’t budging. Physically or emotionally.

_ “Bella~!” _

“I said not to call me that!” Silvestro snapped, turning her rage on the stringy being who sauntered up to them.

The strange companion who had appeared on and off since their meeting in the park gave a cry, a hand coming to his heart, and stumbled towards her. His voice gained a croak that was less pained and more playful as he let his lip quiver, their hue richer than usual; a second-hand application of the red woman’s lipstick.

“Oh, cruel mistress, did you not see the moment my heart broke? Can you not give a grieving man some allowance for only a day?” 

The large woman thinned her lips, not wanting to be rude to someone who wasn’t deserving of it. She sighed loudly and pulled away from him, returning to sneer at the dumbfounded man who had yet to lose his grip. 

“Are you alright here,  _ principessa _ ? I heard you sounding quite angry before,” he asked, stepping closer, glancing at the connected limbs for less than a moment, already cataloguing the interaction deep within his head.

“No, no, there’s nothing wrong here!” the stranger laughed, only to be quieted by a loud scoff.

“This one doesn’t know when to turn tail. I’ve told him twice to not touch me, and yet he doesn’t _ fuck off.” _

String bean brought a hand to his chin in inquisition, humming loudly as he gazed up at her. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t retaliated yet. I do recall being quite brutally booted!”

Silvestro gritted her teeth and huffed, scowling as the grip on her wrist fluttered.

“I can’t go around kicking everyone who pisses me off, String bean. Consider yourself an exception,” she grunted out, temper still simmering deep within her bones like something molten as her skin scalded against the foreign touch.

“Oh, I’m touched,” Giovani-Andrei-Maxwell-ever-extending swooned, before turning his gaze upon the man who was looking between them with a curious expression. “Speaking of touch, I think you should let go, sir.”

He frowned at the fedora man before puffing himself up, the lanky being resisting the urge to raise an amused brow as he did, already seeing what hand was about to be played.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but from what I can see, my friend here doesn’t like you. So, why don’t you-”

“Strike three!” Silvestro snapped, her feet digging into the ground with her heavy anger, arm reaching back before it slammed forwards and crunched against the blond man’s nose. Liquid, hot and wet, glazed her fist before the face parted from her assault, his body sprawling across the cobblestone and didn’t move again, though the low, muffled groans of pain bubbled from his throat as he laid still.

“‘Can’t go around kicking’,” fedora man hummed, lightly poking the man with the toe of his shoe. “Guess punching’s fair game then.”

“He got told three times, and by two different people. He had enough warning,” she huffed, wiping her wrist on her coat before turning on her heel and trudging up the slight incline to the warehouse outlet.

The lanky string bean of a person quickly pattered after her, leaving the body which was gathering a small crowd, and catching up with a coy smile as the woman groaned aloud.

“Great, I have another barnacle-man.”

“Hurtful, I believe myself to be more of a Remora Fish, huddling to the safety of a great shark,” he sighed, flashing the ex-militant a look crafted to break hearts and empty wallets. 

“So, you believe yourself to be a fish that can barely swim on its own,” Silvestro grunted, stepping through the large doors of the outlet, nodding to a greeting cashier. “Interesting choice, String bean.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it,” he pouted, puffing up his reddened lower lip.

The woman stared at him for a few moments, before snorting and ducking into the aisle she knew held the packaged kits; a chicken coop or birdhouse had to be in there somewhere. She let her fingers trail over the labels of children’s playsets, pop up trampolines and dog houses, before coming to a stop on the end of the racks, a sigh spilling from her as she found herself empty-handed.

“Shit, I guess I gotta build it from scratch then,” she grumbled, feeling a twang in her hollow shoulder.

“What are you trying to do,  _ bella?”  _ The man asked, leaning forward to see her better. 

“I’m doing an errand for the school; have to build a chicken coop or something for this quail,” Silvestro responded, leading them into the next aisle with planks of wood. “It’ll take a while, go away.”

“Oh, but I could help!” he exclaimed, coming closer, but not touching her. “After what you’ve experienced today, doing something so strenuous!”

The ex-militant frowned at his light and flirtatious tone, grabbing packets of nails from the walls and reading the lengths.

“I’d rather you not joke about me being harassed,” she grunted.

“That wasn’t...ah, God,” the weird man sighed to himself, rubbing his neck and reanalysing his plots as she made distance between them. “I wasn’t joking,  _ bella _ , I swear. I really am willing to help!” He made chase and stepped in beside the miffed woman, careful about his approach as her displeasure became obvious. 

Silvestro remained silent, trying to keep her attention on the list of things she had to prepare. She couldn’t read the man, all of his mannerisms and tones were so carefully crafted and seamless that she couldn’t tell when he was being genuine or sardonic. It irked her just as much as it made her uneasy.

Fedora man thinned his lips and seemed to measure something with his eyes, hat’s brim tipped downwards to obscure his thoughts from those around him as he laid out the situation before him. He grimaced after a moment, a mere minute twitch of the cheek that most would miss unless they were looking for it. Then he sighed, thin shoulders sagging as he felt the tensions of the mountainous woman before him rise at his stillness.

“ _ May _ I help? I know you can accomplish this on your own; I just want to be of assistance.”

She paused at the rewording, fingers playing with packaging to keep her temper reigned. The ex-militant let out a puff of air after a moment, knowing that doing this alone would be a greater deal of effort than it was truly worth, and that he didn’t intend to come off as he did.

Mahogany eyes turned on the lanky man, who waited patiently for her verdict before she groaned and nodded in his direction.

“Fine, okay just...be careful how you word things, yeah?” Silvestro uttered, rubbing her temples. “And for God’s sake, add different emotions to your voice! You make it seem like you’d find a  _ funeral  _ funny!”

“I assure you,  _ bella _ , I do not find funerals at all amusing,” he huffed with a smile. 

“You’re doing it again! Just- I don’t-” the woman cut herself off sharply, her arm heavy as she covered her face to reign herself in. “You know what, ignore me. I’m just a bit...on edge after that guy.”

There was a beat of silence before she shook her head to clear it and began grabbing up packs of nails, chucking them at her companion.

“Well, time to get to work. We’ve wasted enough time on the dude already.” 

The thin, lanky man nodded with a smile that was a shade different than his usually playful ones and quickly followed after Silvestro as she pulled suitable planks from the racks. She touched the grain before shaking her head and placing the plank back, a grumble of confusion coming from her throat as she looked at the near-endless array.

“Water-resistant, sturdy, cheap - here we go,” she paused at a pile that looked like scrap wood from torn down fences. “Can you hold this?” 

The fedora man prepared for a heavy weight to strain his arms in that moment, but instead, he received the thick material of the ex-militant’s coat. He blinked slowly, staring down at the soft, black tweed overcoat before turning his gaze to the taller lady. She rolled her shoulder and snatched up lengths of lumber, plonking them on her good shoulder. The woman pottered around the mass of recycled timber, grabbing whatever she thought necessary or likeable, the small man beside her following with the packs of nails and a jacket in his own hands.

“I could carry something more, if you’d like?” ‘Giovani-Andrei-Maxwell’ prodded gently, ducking under the beams as she turned a bit too sharply. 

“Huh? Oh sure,” she huffed, still a bit grated. “We need some chicken mesh.”

Chicken mesh, he thought to himself, watching how her bicep rippled as she shifted the load of lumber on her shoulder. The man bit the inside of his cheek in concealed interest before nodding, letting his lips flicker despite himself.

“Off we go, then,” he hummed, voice taking a baritone that made Silvestro’s head snap around in alarm.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, mahogany sharp in colour and attention, jaw tight with grit teeth and muscles tense as they shifted under her skin. Her actions fractured the man’s focus in multiple directions, eyes sweeping the length to take in as much as possible in a single moment. 

“Step lightly,” the woman warned, bristling a bit. 

The man stared at her blatantly for a moment, refusing to drop eye-contact, before he smiled and let the brim of his yellow-banded fedora shade his gaze.

“Of course,  _ bella _ , my apologies.”

Her mood didn’t shift for the rest of the time they spent in the warehouse outlet, her usual amusement at the baffled looks people around them sent - a woman carrying slabs of timber over her shoulder whilst the man beside her plotted along, hands wrapped around three packets of nails - only turning into a bubbling aggravation as her hollowed socket pulsed with her heart and a sharp pain.

Silvestro grunted as she hiked the wood back onto her shoulder, assisted by the thick twine which bound both ends, and began down the decline with her wallet, feeling uncomfortable in its new position. She sighed harshly as the stringy man appeared beside her, plastic bag swinging from his wrist as he tucked the roll of chicken wire under his arm.

“Tell me,  _ bella _ , why are you making a birdhouse for a quail? And at  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup _ of all places?” He asked, watching people make way for the load.

The ex-militant stared down at him for a moment, deliberating whether what she could reveal, something simmering under her stomach that she didn’t like.

“The children took in a quail during the Winter storms, it survived and now it refuses to leave the grounds. They have requested we keep it as a ‘school mascot’,” she answered slowly, biting her lip afterwards in caution. 

“So, you’re making it for the little ballerinas?” He hummed, smiling in that ambiguous manner. “You seem to really like children, Ms Russ. Do you plan to have any of your own?”

She tightened her grip on the planks for a moment, but dark eyes noticed the jump in strength with piqued attentiveness. 

“If I choose to,” came the indefinite response. 

He didn’t say anything further after that, either getting the hint or was put off by the response. Either way, Silvestro found it a small blessing as they neared the turn off for  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup,  _ the familiar paths winding into the park until the building popped up in greeting, the quail scrambling around them as it recognised the tall woman.

The man seemed to think the bird a funny creature, watching it dash about and ram into stuff blindly and bounce off walls like an overexcited rubber ball.

“As long as it doesn’t get in the way, it can do what it wants,” the woman grunted out, dropping the load onto the grass in a shaded spot at the foot of a tree. “We’ll set it up here.”

“Any reason?” he asked, trotting up to place the chicken mesh down as well.

“First place I put the wood down,” she shrugged.

The two began to work on the frame of the coop, the stringy man holding the pieces together as Silvestro struck the hammer down on nails until they were firmly embedded into the panels. She sighed and pushed the pieces of the flooring together, using a smaller piece to connect them by the underside. 

“Okay, I need you to- what the  _ hell  _ are you dressed as now?” The woman blurted, looking over her shoulder at the man.

He had swapped out his yellow dress shirt for a common white one, but most prominently had traded his fedora for a bright yellow hard hat, papers shoved under his arm as he spread out a large sheet on an apparated table that she  _ knew  _ wasn’t there a minute ago. The strange being let his lips curl attractively before saluting her, looking a lazy confident as he put a hand on his hip and nodded his head.

“Dressed as? My lady, I will have you know this is no costume! For I am Yvette, the World’s Greatest Architect!” He declared, slapping his palm on the blueprint.

“Of course you are,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Okay then...help me out here.”

He grinned, pleased by her acceptance of his behaviour, and walked on over, holding his grand plan before him on the blue grid paper. The man was about to speak when the sheet was plucked from his hands and chucked back onto the table, the ex-militant scoffing at his look of betrayal. 

“Oh, no you don’t. This is my project so I’m giving the orders here,” Silvestro snorted, a bit of humour laced into her tone. “You may be the ‘World’s Greatest Architect’, but I’m the groundskeeper and you play by my rules. Got it?”

The man with the long ass list of not-names looked up at her for a moment, distracted, before he sighed and nodded in submission, smiling despite his apparent loss.

“Very well, Ms Russ, your wish is my command.”

“Perfect,” she hummed, turning back to the grouping of floorboards-to-be. “Now, ‘Yvette’, come hold this together while I hammer.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Silvestro sat up from her bed, the room dark with night and the rumble of the sleeping cat beneath her bed. She glared at the far wall with annoyance and discomfort, before groaning and swinging her feet down from the mattress and rummaging through her drawers. 

Her stomach twisted and tensed in sporadic patterns that left her grimacing as she speed-walked to the bathroom. The feeling of her insides dripping made her rumble in frustration as she dropped herself down on the toilet seat and yanked at the lower layers until a patchwork of deep, freshly splattered red presented itself along the centre of her underwear.

“Great,” she sighed, kicking off the bloodied garment and replacing it, laying a cotton menstrual pad to the seat of the cloth. 

After folding back the reusable pad box, the woman cleaned her hand and glared absently at the mirror of the vanity, the corner of a MediSil patch peeling off her cheek. She sighed loudly before starting in surprise as the fresh hell of Ruggine’s yowling began outside the bathroom door; the creature clawing at it in demands for passage.

“Oh, would you stop?” Silvestro snapped, pressing a hand to the low of her stomach after she opened the door and was greeted with the cat rubbing up against her leg. “Just because I’m awake doesn’t mean it’s time for you to eat. You can handle a couple more hours.”

Ruggine didn’t seem to appreciate the sentiment as he hissed at her quickly before shooting off to God knows where, the knowledge that no food would come from sucking up making there be no point in socialising. 

The ex-militant rolled her eyes at the cat’s nature and padded back to her room, intent on getting a couple more hours of sleep before the hellcat began screaming again for sustenance. She yawned and stretched before falling down into bed - then she yelped and vaulted up, her fist coming up beside her head in preparation to punch the lights out of whatever firm form was laying with her.

Silvestro paused, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and left her staring down at a familiar man in a lab coat who sat propped up against her headboard.

“So the subject has conformed to her timetable...fascinating,” Verde breathed, scribbling in his notepad, not looking up. “I would never have thought it so willingly flexible. What else has changed?”

“Verde!?” Silvestro hissed, snapping the lamp on beside her bed. “What the hell are you doing in my _bed?_ How did you get in here?”

“I climbed through the window again; I do not possess a key to your apartment nor do I believe you will answer the door this late at night.”

“You can’t just do that!”

Verde glanced up and frowned a bit, lips tugging downwards in the corners.

“You believe me to be a hazard; A threat to your person, property, or social circle. Do not be concerned, I have no interest in such pointless actions or behaviours. I am merely here to gain data on the subject in its unfamiliar environment since it has made it obvious it will not return to captivity.”

The scientist glanced away from his notebook for a split second before lifting up from the mattress and following after the feline without another word, leaving Silvestro gaping at the dent he had made in her sheets with his presence. 

“_Verde_\- you know what,” she switched suddenly, straightening up. “It’s too early for this. Goodnight Rugg, goodnight Verde. If you wake me up, I’ll kick you out the window.”

There was a faint grumble in response from the kitchen as the Russ woman locked the door to her bedroom to satisfy her paranoia and squirmed into a comfortable position. A grimace came to her expression as her pad didn’t settle right and a bloom of annoyance spread as she envisioned the blood missing and sliding down her thigh to stain and pool in the sheets.

“And thus the week of hell begins,” she grumbled, tugging her pants up higher and pouting into her pillow.

##  **◇◇◇**

Silvestro rolled over with a groan as Ruggine pawed as her, batting at her ears and nose to rouse her as he screeched to high heaven in demand of food. She let out a long-suffered sigh and pulled her blanket over her head, curling into a fetal position as it began trying to dig under and follow her into her cavern of abdominal pain and sleep.

“Go away, Rugg,” she grumbled, feeling an uncomfortable twang in the right side of her stomach that persisted for minutes on end. “Chase a bird or something. Be an actual cat again.”

Ruggine responded by shrieking like a spluttering motor into her ear, claws tugging at her blanket. 

“Ruggine!” She whined, rubbing her face into her pillow. “...Dear God, fine, let’s have breakfast then.”

The large feline yowled in accomplishment and dropped from her bed, dashing ahead as the woman dragged herself up with a jaw-breaking yawn. 

Silvestro grimaced as a sudden wave dropped from within her as the shift from vertical to horizontal emptied her internals of their welled up blood. She shook her head and came to the kitchen, preparing the complaining cat’s plate as it paced impatiently, talking at her to hurry up.

“Yelling at me isn’t going to make this any faster, Ruggine,” she huffed, shovelling the dry food into the only bowl that he agreed to eat from; refusing every other one in the apartment. 

His answer to her words was to amp up the volume, his rusted vocals gargling out demands as he watched her hand with rapt attention.

“Here, little devil.”

In a moment Ruggine pressed his face near flat against the bottom of the bowl, submerging himself in the food in his gluttonous manner, making Silvestro snort and roll her eyes fondly.

“You’re such a fucking weird cat.”

The creature grumbled at her from within his plate and pulled back after a moment, licking his chops and squinting in contentment. 

Silvestro huffed and began gathering her own breakfast, shoving the sugariest cereal she had into a bowl and saturating it with milk. She hummed and ate happily, ignoring how her stomach began to panic as lactose began to fill it, it’s one weakness and enemy.

“Yum.”

The woman hummed and tottered over to her bust-up, old couch and dropped down on it, kicking at the radio until her toes knocked the switch and the morning report sparked to life, the jovial voice of a presenter reading out the latest in celebrity news. With her spoon in her mouth, the ex-militant grumbled as a weight came to her stomach, Ruggine digging his paws into her gut as he began to make himself comfortable.

“Why do you like to see me suffer, you bastard?” She groaned, and the feline curled up, purring like an old engine. Silvestro pursed her lips down at the creature before reaching out and carefully scratching at his cheek. His purrs piqued into rumbles as he closed yellow eyes. “Why can’t you always be this cute?”

“The subject was not designed to be cute,” Verde scoffed, popping up from behind the couch and making the woman choke on her cereal. “It was designed to be inconspicuous, but possess abilities that would assist in combat and stealth.”

“You’re back again?!”

“Of course, I must continue my observations. Having a human around which it readily interacts with is a significant development, I will admit,” he answered easily, eyeing Ruggine as Ruggine rubbed his jaw against her hand, trying to provoke her into action again. “Social stats are increasing, I see.”

“He’s a cat,” Silvestro stated, trying to express her disbelief with the man who only had eyes for the stray. 

“Correction, he is a hybrid of a Eurasian Lynx and a Somali cat.”

“That’s still a cat!”

“Yes, but your expression of the word made it out to seem more simplistic than it actually is.”

The ex-militant frowned and glared at Verde, before sighing and deflating into the couch, Ruggine’s eyes opening slightly as he was prodded with a pen. Silvestro continued to eat her breakfast with an expression of miff, still a bit high-strung from the presence of the man in her apartment, but she slowly unwound as he spared no attention for her, snapping pictures and scrawling heart rates and purring frequencies.

“You really don’t have a weird motive here, do you?” She breathed out, taking her hand away when Ruggine gnawed on her fingertips.

“I already confirmed this. Why would I study you? You are only tangentially significant and allow me to access the subject you call ‘Ruggine’. Such an investigation would be mind-numbingly dull,” he responded, looking between his notepad and his focus. “And I suppose most would call it ‘rude’ - or ‘creepy’ was it? Something like that; but most importantly, it would be a waste of resources.”

The woman stared at him for a moment before letting her attention drift to the ceiling, their Sunday rolling on.

“Also, I ate some of your food, you’re running out of eggs,” he continued, placing an envelope of money on her side table.

“You ate it, you buy more. I’m not getting up until Monday.”

##  **◇◇◇**

It was Sunday afternoon and Silvestro was ready to kill Verde as she trudged her way to the Aurelio’s, a short shopping list in hand of milk and other necessities. There also was an aggressive back and forth of scratching out persistent requests for some kind of ‘instant ramen’ that Silvestro knew she wouldn’t find in her little corner store grocer.

The ex-militant grumbled and touched her stomach as a cramp stabbed her in the very soul, followed by the discomforting sensation of liquid flowing out. Gross. She hoped that this task would be a quick one, in and out, and that’s it-

Silvestro turned the corner and screeched to a halt as a yellow-banded fedora took up her vision, the brim of it nearly brushing her nose at the sudden proximity. She paused and didn’t even try to cover the expression of pain and disagreement as she looked down and saw the smug smile of the unnamed man who followed her around these days.

“_Bella_,” he purred in greeting, not bothering to back away, leaning forward if anything.

“Stringbean,” she responded with a solid nod and took a large stride back before stepping around him. “Good seeing you.”

She had meant that to be a dismissal.

“And it’s wonderful to see you too, Ms Russ,” the man continued, falling into step beside her, hands clasped behind his back. “Where are you off to on this fine evening?”

“Errands,” she grunted out, feeling her stomach clench. “Menial errands.”

“Oh, then allow me to join you on your errands, _bella!_ Perhaps my presence will brighten up the event.”

God damn it, she should have just kicked Verde out and made him do the shopping.

“No, you don’t have to,” she sighed, trying not to grind her teeth. “I’m just doing grocery shopping.”

“Oh, does that bring back memories,” Gustavo-Andrei-Maxwell-Yvette-whatever hummed wistfully, gazing into the sky. “You remember, right,_ bella?_ How we ran into each other in the park one Autumn evening?”

“And I nearly got shanked, yes I remember,” she grumbled

Silvestro paused and stood straighter in an instant, the skin on the back of her neck prickling and urging her to_ turn around carefully._ She took a hissed breath in and grounded her feet before she glanced over her shoulder. 

“Hello, Ma’am!” a young woman laughed, her cheeks flushed the same red as her curly hair as she walked up beside her, a bit embarrassed at getting caught staring. “I’m so sorry for...you know. That was a bit rude.”

“No, it’s...” Silvestro grit her teeth, she wanted to say ‘yes, it was’ but she didn’t want to come off as prickly. “I understand.”

There were too many people around her right now, and she was in no mood to handle them at the moment.

Her hollow shoulder throbbed inside her light coat. And then the man who had yet to be solidly named prowled from around her side to smile thinly at this new woman. 

In an instant, Silvestro saw the woman’s eyes snap between the two of them, taking in their faces before her smile became wider. She looked tempted to take another step forward into their space and completely bypass any sort of polite distancing. 

Silvestro’s feet were planted firmly on the ground and the cobblestone under her boots grated under her weight, her body gearing up for something, despite being in a quiet shopping strip in her little town.

“You must excuse us, miss,” the stringbean cooed and Silvestro snapped back at the tone of his voice, seeing the woman across from them nearly glazed-eyed. “We are in a bit of a rush this evening. It was lovely meeting you, but we must be off.”

“Oh, of course, I-” 

She looked like she wanted to say more, but Silvestro barely gave her a chance and the little man beside her followed in stride, a hand hovering by her elbow like he was escorting her. 

There was a long pause as they walked, Silvestro taking a moment to loosen her muscles - and notice that her company had migrated to her left side now. He had hovered by her hollow shoulder whilst talking to the woman, but now drifted back.

It was thoughtful; she supposed. But it irked her that he decided she needed protecting like she hadn’t marched through pouring rain and sweltering sun. Like she hadn’t gotten her _arm blown off-_

“_Bella_,” the man began and Silvestro took a deep breath to calm herself down, “Does this happen often?”

Silvestro blinked and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye in question.

“Skies-” he paused and cleared his throat, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes to hide his thoughts. “People approaching you out of the blue. Persistently.”

Aurelio’s appeared from over the little hill of the pathway and as the two made their way, Silvestro couldn’t help but ponder the man’s question. Had many people been approaching her lately? 

“...Yes,” she uttered finally, her brow furrowing as she wondered if she was overthinking or if there truly had been an increase of encounters. “There have been more people approaching since- well, since I was laid off.”

“I see,” the nameless man murmured, “People like that woman? And the man from a couple of days ago?”

“Not always but they do...Ah, this is going to sound dumb but there’s no way I can describe it,” she sighed, “They all have the same feeling to them.”

“No, _bella,_ I completely understand what you mean,” her company assured, before he tilted his head to peer up at her, no longer obscuring his eyes with his hat. “Tell me, are you feeling well at all today? You seem a bit...”

“Yeah, sorry,” she sighed, a hand coming to her brow to massage a growing headache. “I’m a bit fucked today. Not in a great mood ‘cause of it.”

The man made a soft noise before he carefully uttered, “Would you rather I leave you be today, my lady?”

Silvestro paused, and the man stilled beside her, patiently waiting for the verdict. She frowned and shifted her weight, casting her gaze between the suited man and the middle distance in front of them. The woman bit her lip as she pondered on his presence beside her, then imagined him gone.

“Nah, I’d rather you stay,” she murmured, a hand coming to scratch a scab on her cheek, before adding with a laugh, “If only to chase off anyone who pesters me today.”

The man slowly took this information in before he cocked his head in a manner that obscured his eyes from her vision. His lips, however, pulled into an obvious smile, and his right cheek caved in a dimple. 

  
“It’d be my pleasure, _bella_.”


	14. Chapter 14

“So, when are Giulio and I getting that wedding invite?” Orazio asked, snapping his gloves on.

“I’m not even dating anyone! For God’s sake, doc,” Silvestro huffed, feeling hands touch her back and apply pressure.

“I’m just asking; I’m not getting any younger, you know?” he chuckled warmly, tilting his head back as he examined how the scarring had faded. “You’re healing up nicely, not too long now.”

“Great, then I can get rid of the bandages. God, they get so itchy,” the woman tugged on her shirt again and sighed as he stretched and rolled her shoulders, face pinching as her back ached. “Ugh, I’m going to need to go to a chiropractor at this rate. Or maybe some sort of massage salon, my back is killing me.”

“I’m not surprised, the weight of your body has been distributed unevenly. I can look up some locations in the phone book if you need?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, digging her thumb into her lower back. “That’d be great, thanks.”

“No problem. Giulio’s been keeping a catalogue of the antique rings in his shop for you; for down the road, of course.”

“Doc,” Silvestro whined, “come on!”

“I want vicarious grandkids!” The GP complained in response, copying her tone and leaving the woman snorting.

The ex-militant pouted and leant against the wall as she listened to the scratchings of his ballpoint pen, foot kicking absently in restlessness. She murmured to herself, trying to remember if she needed to grab anything before she returned home.

“Here, these are the closest places. They should do fine enough, though you’ll have to book appointments since they don’t take walk-ins,” the doctor hummed, handing the larger woman a slip of paper.

“Your handwriting’s still wonky as hell. You’re gonna kill someone at this rate,” she grunted, before yelping as a ruler whacked her bicep. “Ow! Ow, bloody fuc- Stop! Fine, I’m leaving, jeez!”

“Remember to book your next appointment with Julieanne!” He shouted after her, the secretary lifting her head at the shout of her name.

The little woman smiled politely as Silvestro came to loom over the counter, a gleam of residual amusement in her mahogany as she sighed out that she needed to sign in another three weeks from now.

“Of course, would the 13th of March do? Around 1pm?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Wonderful, see you then Ms Russ.”

Silvestro nodded to her before taking a card with the appointment scrawled on it and made her way out to the street. She huffed a breath before melding with the crowd, intent on grabbing something to snack on for the walk home.

The bakery was warm and overflowing with the scent of bread as she picked out a bun and took it with her, paper bag tucked in her fist as she navigated cobblestone paths and came to a pause at the bench that had been stripped of its once hideous yellow. The woman quirked her lips before sitting down, flowering weeds brushing her ankles as she sank her teeth into fresh bread and spices happily.  _ My Love  _ by  _ Petula Clark _ was playing from an open window and left the woman humming as she tapped her foot, only half paying attention to her surroundings. 

Then the sudden feeling of being watched made her spine shiver within her flesh, eyes widening as she sat up and strained her ears. Her feet were pressed flat against the earth, legs vibrating in their stillness, ready to propel her off of the bench. She glanced over her shoulder and sucked on the back of her teeth as she registered someone bending over the bench behind her.

The sudden presence, coupled with a face that was paused in a decidedly playful smile, made Silvestro tense before the being let out a laugh that was smooth as velvet and tilted their body to incline towards her. 

“Good morning,  _ bella _ . And how are you today?” The stringbean of a man greeted warmly, amused by her reaction.

“The  _ fuck!?”  _ She shouted, glaring at him as she calmed down. “Where in the fresh hell did you come from?”

“I’ve been here this whole time,” he laughed, leaning against the rounded back of the bench. “I was just admiring the Spring when you came along and changed the scene from beautiful to sublime.”

Silvestro quirked a brow at him, her nose scrunched to show she was unconvinced before she stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth and turned back to the front. The groan of the bench made her ears prick, residue adrenaline buzzing in her fingers and making her alert as the man sat down beside her, less than an arm’s length away; an easy gap to close for either party.

“So, will you answer my question now that your curiosity has been satisfied? How are you,  _ bella?” _ He asked with a smile, crossing his knees and draping his arm over the back of their seat, angling his chest towards her in mostly open body language.

“Fine,” she responded shortly, “And you?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he hummed, leaning slightly to shrink the space.

“Uh-huh, whatever you say, Stringbean.”

They settled into a silence that allowed Silvestro to focus on the birds who were dive-bombing each other in the trees, competitions of survival allowing them to spin through branches and duck under leaves. She relaxed into the warm wooden bench and watched lazily, taking in their acrobatics - trying to ignore how the strange man shuffled closer; a millimetre every other moment.

“So,  _ bella _ , tell me, have you seen the new exhibit at the art museum? I hear it’s fascinating, very enjoyable for a wide array of audiences!” He cooed, inclining his head in a manner that made the curls of his sideburns bob distractingly.

“Yeah, Amelia and I went yesterday after work. It was nice; but I’ve never been very good at appreciating ‘fine art’,” Silvestro hummed, sinking her teeth into the bun again and tearing off a chunk to chew in contentment. “You should go though, you seem like someone who would like it.”

The man’s smile twitched, either to extend or to retract neither knew but he didn’t take long to gather his troops and rest his chin on his palm.

“Ah, but it’d be so much better with company! Why not go with me? If you already know the exhibit, perhaps you could guide me around and show me your favourites?”

“Mm,” she breathed quirking her head. “I thought it seemed more like a place to wander, rather than have an A-to-B destination. You’d probably want to take your time.”

He remained in his position, seemingly to buffer in a moment of loss, brain making connections slower than he was used to as he was once again turned away. Oh, this was going to be a trek - but the scenery will be to  _ die  _ for.

“Then, there’s an excellent new restaurant opening uptown that I’ve heard rumour of through the grapevine. Waterside views, glass roof to view the night sky. It’s very fashionable and contemporary,” he suggested, presenting the idea to the woman who chewed through her once-a-week splurge she allowed herself.

“Sounds expensive,” Silvestro grunted, flicking a couple of crumbs at the sparrows who wandered over. “Not my kind of place, gotta admit.”

He looked a bit dead inside, before making himself smile more and shuffled just the slightest bit closer.

“Well, do you like dancing?”

“Two left feet, buddy,” she laughed, tossing her head back a bit as she let out the sound, strangely at ease at the moment. “I do believe my friends in school called it ‘the beached whale’!”

“Anyone ever tried to teach you? I wouldn’t mind trying my hand, all I would need is an evening together,” he offered suggestively, lips curling in the corners in  _ just  _ the way that would allure women from all corners of the world. 

“Yeah, plenty. My mum tried getting me a dancing coach; he deemed me a lost cause after three weeks,” the woman snickered, biting down again. “Not much my thing, anyway. I’ve always been too inclined to brute force.”

The man couldn’t deny that - in fact, he could only attest to the claim, his pelvis having near damn been removed from its position in his skeleton upon their first meeting. So he took a breath and fiddled with his fingers, deciding to take another route.

“Well...” the lanky man tried again, showing a mask of vulnerability. “What about...A movie? Do you go to the pictures often?”

Silvestro hummed to herself, as if trying to remember something. 

“Not for a while, but I can never really find something that interests me enough to bother spending money on. ”

Fedora man latched onto that comment, his head coming to tilt as he tongued at the roof of his mouth, deliberating his lines.

“Well, what about  _ ‘Le Spie Amano I Fiori’ _ ? It came out only recently...We could - could go together if you’d like?” Came another gentle suggestion as the woman continued to sprinkle crumbs from the growing flock of sparrows. 

There was another moment of silence before Silvestro wiped the last of the grains from her hand and frowned off at the distance, larger pigeons having joined the mass at their feet and cooing in their delight of an easy meal.

“I think I saw the poster for that movie,” she breathed, making the man perk up. “Wasn’t the woman tied and gagged while her dress kinda just hung off her?” The woman scratched her nape, her face pinching a bit in open dislike. “Yeah, I don’t really think I’d like that kind of movie.”

While she wasn’t looking, the man wilted like a dead flower, a sigh escaping him silently as he tried to find something that would spark interest in the person across from him. He nibbled at his lip and watched as she began to collect her bag, folding it in her lap and standing.

“Well, I better get home. It was nice talking to yo-”

“Wait just a moment, Ms Russ!” he blurted, nails sinking into the wooden panelling of the bench. The surrounding birds scattered at the raise of his voice, something Darwinian in them aware of the chance of danger.

“Ah...this did not go as planned it would seem,” he uttered aloud, the brim of his fedora tilted downward and shadowing his expression. “Subtlety doest seem to work with you, so I’ll have to be blunt...”

Silvestro shifted in her seat, very aware of how the man’s jaw had grown tense. If anyone had been watching their interaction from afar, it would seem they were having a normal conversation, but up close they would have seen how both participants were coiled and ready to bolt. 

“Would you be against going on a date with me?”

The ears which peaked from under the man’s fedora were tinted a soft pink. The shade crept down his nape, and he shifted his head slightly, peeking out from under the brim of his yellow-banded hat to the Russ woman across who had yet to utter a noise. 

Silvestro was visibly stunned; eyes wide and silent as she stared at the waiting man. She blinked once, then twice, and slowly raised her hand to point dumbly at herself, eyebrow quirking if only from muscle memory.

“Yes, you,” the man insisted, turning in his seat to face her more, unravelling from his original curl. 

“But why?” Silvestro stressed, lowering her hand to wave it at him. “Eh!?”

“Because I want to, and because I like spending time with you,  _ bella _ ,” he answered, leaning forward slightly in a manner that conveyed sincerity.

The ex-militant rubbed her nape and glanced around, trying to comprehend the situation, something akin to turbulence and nervousness bubbling in her stomach as she was met with a rather abrupt scenario. Her lip came to be gnawed on, skin peeling between her teeth as she thought on it, the doctor Orazio’s words echoing in her head and urging her on. 

She always went on about wanting a family, but rarely did she ever take those first foundational steps towards the dream. It was either her picky nature, or her desire for monotony and consistency that led her back to square one; relationships short, brief dates never straying far from the barracks. 

Silvestro glanced at the lanky man who popped in and out of existence seemingly at will, too many names and yet none all at the same time. He wasn’t going to be consistent with her; he was not going to be an easy road.

“Yeah,” Silvestro uttered after a moment, letting her lips flirt with a nervous smile. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Maybe it was time to walk another no-man's-land?

The way his face both brightened and closed off in the same moment made her squeeze her nape, but she turned her focus on his rattling of times and locations rather than the second-guessing voice deep in her head.

“So, you’re okay for Saturday night?” He asked, looking up at her with a kind of contagious excitement that made her skin buzz. “Does five-thirty sound good to you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Should I meet you at the square?” She hummed, forcing herself to lower her hand to her side; but it felt awkward just hanging here and so began to wander from her pocket and then to her hip. “Should I be wearing something in particular?”

“Oh, but  _ bella _ , it would only be polite if I were to collect you from your door! Having you walk to the town square when I should be pampering you beyond compare; an atrocity! All I ask is that you wear something nice, for I will be reserving us a table at the best restaurant I know for the evening.”

“Oh no, I hope you don’t plan on spendin’ a whole bunch,” Silvestro grimace, only to be waved off by the man. 

“Leave the details to me, my darling, and just enjoy it.”

Leaving the details to him is what worries her, she thought, but submitted to his wishes with a shrug.

“I guess...I’ll be seeing you then,” the woman laughed out, scratching the MediSil patch on her cheek.

“Yes, I’ll see you on Saturday - five-thirty sharp,” the strange stringbean smiled, tipping his hat’s brim to her, before gliding out of sight.

Silvestro thought he had a certain spring in his step; she didn’t know if that was a cause for concern or not.


	15. Chapter 15

** Chapter 15 **

Amelia was roaring drunk.

“The fu- how did this happen?” Silvestro asked, reaching out to catch the smaller woman as she did a clumsy pirouette towards her, bottle of wine sloshing in her hand and just barely avoiding being spilt all over the carpet.

“She always gets like this, this time of year. Dad left right around now, so she gets all tipsy ‘cause of it,” Quinto huffed, crossing his arms from the doorway as the ex-militant guided his mother to sit down.

“Huh? I thought she was glad that-“

“Come on Silvy, drink with me!” The ballerina grinned, grabbing handfuls of the woman’s coat and trying to yank her down to slump on the couch. “Come on! It’s a time to fucking celebrate! Make it a public holiday! Make it international! That no-good fucker’s gone and we’re all better for it!”

Quinto snorted at his mother in humour, already very used to her giddy drunken self. He grabbed the necks of empty wine bottles and lined them on the counter, far away from the woman’s off-balance dancing and Silvestro’s frantically lumbering form as she tried to keep Amelia from killing herself. 

“Amelia! Amelia, just come here,” Silvestro groaned, lifting the woman from crawling across the carpet and dropping them both on the couch and held onto her by the waist. 

The mother flailed and rolled around in her grip before flopping over her, taking another chug of wine and cooing at the taste, kicking her bare feet and flexing her toes. She hummed before turning her attention to her son, sticking him with a look that made Silvestro raise an eyebrow.

“Come, come here, my son. Spawn of my loins, approach me!” she called, reaching for Quinto, who sighed and shuffled over, bending as the woman gasped his face in her hands. “Listen, my child. Listen. Learn from my mistakes and misdeeds. Learn; learn the signs and if your wife dares to cross you, remove the cancer from your side!”

“Okay, Mama,” he grumbled, blinking at her as she slipped into some form of Shakespearean prose, waving her hand at the ceiling as she recited Hamlet’s ‘to die, to sleep’. Quinto glanced to Silvestro who looked between them with a kind of watered-down worry, her hand being slapped around by the inebriated woman who giggled at its flopping movement. “What’re you looking at?”

“I was just...You’re a good kid, Quinto.”

The son narrowed his eyes and looked away pointedly, but sat on the carpet cross-legged beside the two women, hooking his headset over his ears and pressing down on the play button on his cassette player with a loud ‘clack’, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

“Aren’t I just?”

** ◇◇◇**

Silvestro stared down at her boiling pot of Minestrone sauce, the pasta cooling down in the sink off to the side. She liked making Minestrone since it could freeze for nearly three months and if she was hungry but lazy, she could just shove it one the stove.

The ex-militant listened to the current affairs coming through the radio, the show’s host speaking to some kind of field professional about the trends in the stock market. She only really paid it half an ear; she liked company when she cooked.

The other half of her attention was drawn to watching Verde lay on his stomach as he took notes on Ruggine’s defecation patterns, though all she could really see was his feet sticking out of the bathroom doorway. He muttered things about texture, and Silvestro gagged before she tossed one of her work gloves at him, catching him in the arse with it.

“Verde shut the hell up about the _texture _of Ruggine’s _shits! _”

“It’s an important way to gauge health and-”

Silvestro huffed and let the man rant, stirring the pot some more. 

“Oh yeah,” she blinked, pausing adding a generous amount of parmesan cheese as she remembered something. “Verde, I’m going somewhere tomorrow afternoon. You can’t break into my house while I’m gone.”

“Very well, may I have an estimate for your return?” The scruffy man asked, following Ruggine through the house as the cat scratched his nails through a rope pole.

“I should be back by...Seven at the latest.” 

Nearly two hours. That should be enough, right?

“Will you be able to get large rats on your way? I have a hypothesis I wish to test with Subject 007.”

Silvestro paused and then turned to Verde with a grunt of laughter, “Verde, I’m going on a _ date_. I can’t get large _rats _on my way home. Anyway, here’s your soup, eat and get out, I have work tomorrow.”

Verde barely took the moment to stop writing observations as he spooned Minestrone into his mouth, some of it spilling onto his chin until Silvestro shoved a tissue at him. He grumbled a thank you before wiping his face.

Silvestro ate her creation, ignoring how Ruggine wound through her feet like he was starving and skin and bones despite there being a half-eaten bowl of food still sitting on the ground. She huffed as the fat, hell-cat jumped up onto her lap and started sniffing at her bowl, only for the woman to pick him up and all but bowl him back into the living room.

“No cats at the human table,” she scolded absently, reading a newspaper article about a new heritage listing. 

“Subject 007 is not a cat.”

“Oi Rugg,” Silvestro called, and the rusty ol’ cat turned his head to her. “Meow.”

_ “Murr!” _he purred before shoving his face into his bowl.

“I think that means he’s a cat.”

“Not a cat.”

Seven o’clock rolled around and Silvestro finished cleaning the dishes, wiping her hand on a dishtowel as she turned back to Verde sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to get Ruggine to chase a laser pointer.

“Okay Verde, time to get out, I’ve got work.”

The man wrote faster, not dissimilar to a student getting the call for ‘one minute left!’ in an exam. He frantically scrawled down several more numbers in some sort of hand-drawn chart before he sighed and rolled his neck.

“I will begin formatting the data tomorrow as to not interrupt your fraternisation-”

“Excuse me-” Silvestro grunted, opening the door in obvious dismissal.

“However, I would just like to remind you that should something unexpected arise, Subject 007 is capable and trained to neutralise a male adult human. But before you give the command, please do call for me so I can make observations!”

“_Goodnight_, Verde,” Silvestro scoffed before shoving him the last bit out and closing the door.

** ◇◇◇ **

Ruggine hissed loudly and yowled as the door jumped under the impact of fists, back bristling as he dug his claws into the stitchwork of the busted, red couch. The light in Silvestro’s room flickered on and let out a dull yellow beam before the woman stepped out, rubbing her eye as she padded across the room, nightgown wrinkled from hugging her body awkwardly from her sprawling.

“It’s just the door, Rugg, calm down,” she yawned, peeking through the peephole and sighing as she stepped back and unlatched the locks. “Hi, Amelia.”

“You have a _ date?! _ With _mystery fedora man!? _” she gasped, waving a note in Silvestro’s face, mahogany eyes pinched from the light in the hall. “Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“I did, I wrote you a note,” the ex-militant grumbled, before stepping aside and letting her dash into the apartment. “Don’t be so loud. You’ll piss off my neighbours.”

Amelia didn’t respond and plunged herself into the sparse collection of clothes Silvestro possessed. She murmured and pushed things around before grabbing things off racks and tossing them across the bed, tossing her head back and loudly asking why everything had fur on it.

“I have a cat now,” Silvestro grunted, bending to scratch at the feline’s chin before it darted off and squirmed his way beneath the bed. “God, you’re making a mess!”

“I need to be able to see what I’m working with! Otherwise, how am I supposed to get you ready for your date?” she huffed, getting on her hands and knees and crawling into the cupboard, rummaging through the folded clothes at the bottom.

“Well, you’re not going to find it in there - and who said you’re getting me ready?” the ex-militant yelped, dodging a brazier that was tossed over Amelia’s shoulder.

“Where are all your good clothes, woman!? You’re going to that fancy, uptown restaurant, for God’s sake!”

Silvestro sighed and walked over to her cupboard and dragged her friend out by the ankles, rolling her eyes at the woman when she made desperate grabs for the shelves. She pushed the door on its wheels and opened the taller section of the wardrobe, shoving aside coats to show a small assortment of dresses.

“There, happy?” she snorted, dropping down to curl up on her bed and watch the mother dance around with her new prizes.

Amelia hummed and examined each, checking patterns and tags with a sharp eye. She released a small sound, making the mountainous woman turn over in her drowsing, listening with mahogany eyes shut.

“This one! You’ll wear this! It’s perfect, why didn’t I think of it!?”

“What one?” Silvestro grumbled, sitting up before choking as the woman’s hands grabbed her collar and pulled her from her warm haven.

“This one!” she cried, shoving the familiar, gold and purple dress in Silvestro’s face. “The one _ he _got you!”

The ex-captain blinked. Then she scrunched up her nose and shook her head quickly, denying the idea.

“Why not?”

“‘Cause _he _bought it for me! What if the date goes wrong and-”

“Ah!” Amelia interrupted, bopping the taller woman on the head with a clothes hanger. “Bad karma! It will only go as bad as you think it will! Give him the benefit of the doubt, Silvestro.”

The large woman cupped her shoulder awkwardly as Amelia dashed off to rummage through her shoes, leaving her with the dress hanging off of the door. She grit her teeth as she looked at the sleeveless cut and felt out the rough lines of her bandages.

Ruggine let out the yowl of a rattling engine and snapped Silvestro from her thoughts, clawing at her blankets as he tried to free himself from the gap he had trapped himself in. His struggle made the woman roll her eyes with a snort and walk over, dragging the bad from the wall and letting the tail-less cat wrangle himself free, shaking himself down with a scoff. 

“Dumb cat,” she huffed, kneeling down and running her palm along his back. “You never learn do you?”

Ruggine rumbled and headbutted her wrist before bouncing into the tight space, his last leg kicking at air as he squirmed and wiggled his way in.

“And off you go to try again. What a dumbass.”

Silvestro jumped as Amelia wrapped her arms around her from behind, grinning at her expense as she dangled a pair of black flats off her fingers. 

“I found some! I knew I spotted them last time I came to your house, I just needed to find them in that old junk cupboard,” she hummed, squishing her cheek to her companion’s in an over-exaggerated cuddle. “You’re such a hoarder.”

“There isn’t much surface space in the house,” the ex-militant sighed, patting her head of blond before shuffling back over to her bed and pulling the blankets up, wiggling her feet beneath the covers. “I’m gonna need a jacket.”

“Mhm, you’re going out at night so you’re gonna get chilly,” Amelia agreed, sending the woman’s back a long glance before shoving around coats and humming as she found one she liked. “You have so many nice clothes in this shelf!”

“Well, yeah,” Silvestro yawned, tapping at Ruggine’s paws as he reached for the light. “I like dressing up sometimes and pretending I’m pretty.”

The woman gave a huff as a balled-up shirt was lobbed at her head, grumbles of annoyance coming from the mountainous militant as she sat up and pegged it back at the instructor making her yelp. She scowled softly before pushing herself up against her headboard, rolling her eyes as her friend came over and sat next to her, already knowing her overwhelming positive vibes were going to be shoved down her throat.

“Silvestro-”

“Amelia,” she whined, sinking into her bed. “Come on, I don’t want a speech.”

“Well, you’re gonna get one.”

“It was just a joke!” Silvestro grunted, crossing her arm as a smaller one looped around her shoulders and pulled her to lean against a slight frame. “It was just a joke, you don’t need to get all grabby.”

Amelia huffed and cuddled her pouty friend into her side, careful not to disturb the bandages and tender scarring. She felt the mountainous woman roll her head in an exaggeration of exasperation as she spoke in soft determination, gently reprimanding the large woman who slumped into her bed more, neck bending to dig her chin into her own chest. 

“You need more self-confidence, Silvestro! You’re going on a date, that alone proves you have allure,” she hummed, getting a scoff from her friend. “Your legs are long and your thighs are strong; you’ve got a good bust too! Look at my little top shelf! Barely a shelf at all!”

“You’re _petite_, Amelia, which is attractive. I’m…blocky?”

“If you mean being a blockhead, then indeed you are Madam Russ.” the ballerina snipped, thunking her on the skull. “You’re letting your insecurities get to you. Your devil is whispering loudly.”

“And now it gets religious-”

“It’s a metaphor, woman!” Amelia puffed.

Silvestro snorted again but didn’t fight her on it anymore, knowing that they’d just go around and around if she did. It was too late in the day for that, anyway; they needed to get up for work already.

“I can’t believe you kicked down my door at 4am,” the ex-militant sighed, padding around the kitchen’s linoleum floor as the kettle boiled loudly. “You could have waited another two hours.”

“Nonsense, this was of the utmost importance,” Amelia scoffed, pouring spoonfuls of instant coffee into a pair of mugs, hot water following after. “Remind me to buy you better coffee.”

“My coffee is fine, lady. Thanks,” she grumbled, taking her cup and nudging Ruggine out of the way with her foot as she pulled the dining chair out to sit on. “It doesn’t taste like dirt and it’s cheap; it’ll do.”

The dancer let out a disappointed sigh before joining her at the small table, sipping on the dulled down drink with a lacklustre expression. They hummed at each other occasionally, Ruggine rubbing up against their feet and chewing on their ankles. 

“When is mystery fedora man picking you up?” Amelia asked, bending to scratch at the tabby’s chin and getting rusted purrs rattled up at her. 

“Five thirty; I was planning on getting my shit together after work but I guess I have a free hour now that that’s been done _ for _me.”

“You’re welcome - and what do you mean ‘a free hour’? At best, you have half of that! You’re going uptown at night! You need hair and makeup!”

“Personally and practically,” Silvestro hummed, swirling her coffee absently. “I doubt that I have enough hair to do anything other than maybe slapping on a hairband. It’s too short to put in a ponytail or anything like that.” 

“Then stop cutting it so short!” 

Silvestro rolled her eyes and chugged the last of her drink before she got to her feet and left her cup in the sink, stretching until her back cracked and Amelia applauded quietly, appreciating a good, satisfying snapping.

“Come on, let’s go. We’ve got to get the doors open before their mothers start abandoning them at the steps,” she yawned, shoving her feet into her boots as she plucked her coat off the rack. 

The mother whined but got to shrugging on her shawl, her work bag tucked in the corner from when she had bashed her way into the apartment in the morning. She hummed and linked up with the larger woman after giving the grumpy feline a parting pat, light on her feet as she bounced about with thoughts and plans dancing about her brain.

“Don’t get too excited, Amelia. I’m not risking going overboard with this - It might not work out, after all,” Silvestro sighed, tucking her key into her pocket as they stepped out of the building.

“Okay, you need to stop saying that,” Amelia warned, coming up beside her with a frown. “You’re digging yourself a grave if you do. Just...try to relax about it. Enjoy it, dates are meant to be fun after all!”

The ex-militant rubbed her nape and gave an unsure nod, looking unconvinced and just a shade unwell. She bit her lip and shook her head, trying to dispel unpleasant thoughts as they came to the looming structure of the_ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup_, the loud scrambling of the quail already audible to them as it ran sporadic circles around its new home.

“Aw, that’s adorable, Silvestro! You put the hut under the tree the children found it under!” 

Silvestro pulled a face and trudged off, a handful of birdseed chucked out of the shed window and scattered onto the grass for its scavenging. She scoffed at the other woman who waved happily from the second-storey window, its rigging screeching against the pane as she pushed it up with a grunt of exertion, the groundskeeper watching with a pocketed hand from below.

“You need some help?”

“No, no! I’ve - I’ve got...It!” Amelia heaved, throwing it open with a shout, her arms pinwheeling to keep her from falling out.

“....Okay then,” the ex-captain shrugged, trudging across dewy grass to her office, grumbling as the quail zipped around underfoot and made her pause her steps. “You’re being a pest.”

It snapped its head towards her and stared with wide eyes, beak slightly open in its breathing. Then it let out a squawk and bolted off, diving into the bushes headfirst.

Silvestro sighed and rubbed her brow, “have animals always been this weird?”

** ◇◇◇**

“You’re nervous again aren’t you?” Amelia huffed, poised delicately on the platform as she watched her students try to balance pirouettes. 

Silvestro glanced up at her from her station on the corner of the stage, elbow on her knee and hunched over with a plain look of absence on her face. 

“No, I’m fine now,” she hummed, getting a snort from the petite lady.

“Then could you stop thumping the floor with your foot? It’s knocking them out of time.”

The ex-militant blinked and pressed her soles to the floorboards to still them with a heat spreading in the tips of her ears. She bit her lip and glanced to the clock which ticked a rhythm that grated on her nerves; two hours until she needed to be ready. 

Silvestro was suffering from sporadic moments of _ ‘what the fuck did I do!?’_; a common ailment for people of her disposition and mentality. It had left her, several times, laying on her back in the grass and grumbling hatred to the sunshine, the quail jumping over her legs.

The children had seemed to have caught onto her mood, and in their brief breaks had scampered down to the gardens where she had shoved her hand deep in the dirt, trying to encourage the Crocus to take root with fertilizer and generous dowsings of water. They had crowded around her legs and chattered like hens up at the woman as she tended to the Bougainvillea, Susanna tugging at her pants gently to try and garner attention.

“You’ll be fine, Silvestro. Try to stop freaking out.”

“I’m trying,” she groaned, laying back across the platform and staring up at the banisters. “I’m just...over thinking.”

The women paused their chatter as the small girl Susanna crawled up onto the stage, sitting cross-legged beside the hulking groundskeeper with a shy smile before she reached out and patted the soldier’s knee three times. 

“Ms Russ will be fine!” she hummed, then was joined by the rest of her tiny classmates and Silvestro bunched in on herself insensitively as she found herself surrounded by delicate little ballerinas who were making a point of tapping her with their palms and chanting _ “Ms Russ will be fine” _ like some sort of fae spell.

Silvestro looked to Amelia for help, but the woman was too busy smothering her laughter with her hand as she watched her coworker be bordered by youths, she managed a small encouragement though, hinting that instead of shying away, she should take a step forward. The groundskeeper bit her tongue before glancing to Susanna who was patting the plains of her stomach and chanting, her hand came out and the girl gave a squeal as fingers found the ticklish nook of her side and sent her sprawling, the group dispersing with laughter and staged screaming.

The instructor let out a melodious giggle as she watched them scatter, her lumbering coworker hesitantly following after as the children tested how close they could get before her attack was directed upon their being. 

Silvestro felt awkward in her stilted chasing, never taking more than two steps at a time when a small person risked getting within her reach before bolting away with a screech of high pitched laughter as they clutched their sides to protect from her limited fingers. Her lips twitched into an unsure smile as girls latched onto her legs and a boy leapt upon her back, Susanna hanging off her neck and dangling with kicking feet as the woman straightened, children swaying from her like_ Grey Man’s Beard. _

“Run children, flee! For the mighty Ms Russ follows!” Amelia called, adding fuel to their childish flames and sending them all but bouncing off the wall in their giddiness. 

The old captain looped her arm under Susanna’s knees when she felt the little girl slipping, supporting her with a touch of hesitance, taking exaggerated steps to entertain the children sitting on her feet. Their laughter was infectious and the woman found her lips twitching with persuasive force, tiny hands gripping tightly to her as they clung and danced around her borders.

Amelia clapped happily as she watched parents duck into the room, brows raising as they watched the lumbering form of _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalupi’s _groundskeeper swing around their children on her limbs. A mother covered her mouth to conceal her humour, spotting her daughter bodily wrapped around Silvestro’s leg and valiantly keeping her place by battling away the other students.

The instructor hummed and joined the newly arrived adults, sharing jovial glances with them as they quietly asked about the usually illusive groundskeeper they had only truly seen from a distance.

“Ms Russ usually helps in classes towards the end of the day; she’s very good at assisting with lifts and keeping the children focused,” she smiled, gesturing to the woman who had yet to notice them. “Today though,” she continued, raising her voice to gain attention. “Ms Russ has a date to attend; in less than an hour!”

The moment Silvestro’s fight-or-flight set in was near palpable to the mothers who watched, her eyes widening as her muscles seized, the children hanging from her tilting their heads in confusion at the sudden paralysis which riddled her body.

“First date with the man?” a mother asked.

“First date with the man,” Amelia confirmed with a nod, before clapping her hands and summoning the children from their groundskeeper.

“A-Amelia...” Silvestro gulped, getting the woman to flutter over to her and rub her back with gentle coo’s of ‘calm down, it’s not going to go to hell’. “But what if it does?”

“Oh my God, woman!” the instructor cried, throwing herself across the stage dramatically, pointing her toes. “Woe is the man who must deal with your antics!”

“You can’t say that and then act like that.”

The ex-militant sighed and got herself together, trudging heavily past the mothers and waving at the children who called out to her, steps thundering in the western stairwell. She got out the brooms and trays, the low murmur of mothers passing by her office.

“Okay Silvestro, we need to sweep and get out of here. We need all the time we can get to make you spiffy for tonight!” Amelia grinned, dancing with a broom as the ex-captain began collecting the forgotten possessions of the students and dumping them in a box in the corner. 

“I just need to shower and put the clothes on,” she huffed, pulling the window shut with a screech and locking it. “It won’t take that long.”

The ballerina grumbled before they jumped as the doors burst open, Valentina storming in in a manner that made Amelia understand the relation between two Bacigalupi’s.

“My Silvy is going on a date!? And I didn’t know about it?! _ Silvestro!” _

The Russ woman whimpered and shrunk a bit as the old Primadonna came up to her, an instinctual, habitual fear of her aunt blooming as she saw the fan in her hand.

“You didn’t tell me about such an important development! A man! A _ miscreant!” _

“He’s rather mysterious,” Amelia smiled, coming up beside them as Silvestro ducked a swipe. “Wears a fedora that always shades his eyes. A rather snappy suit as well.”

“Aunty! Stop-“ Silvestro raised her arm to block another whack to the ear. “Stop hitting me! I’m 27, I can date if I want.”

“Whether you can date or not isn’t the issue here! It’s that you exclude me from the situation!” Valentina huffed, crossing her arms unhappily.

The ex-militant looked down at her aunt for a moment, examining her face, before she grumbled and scrubbed the short hairs at the back of her head. 

“Aunty Valentina, you wanna help get me ready for tonight? I don’t really trust Amelia to keep within a natural range,” Silvestro asked, peering over the broom bristles carefully.

The Primadonna blinked before lowering her arms and nodded, her painted on blush growing more pronounced as she gripped her fan more. She scoffed loudly and straightened herself, before pausing in surprise as Amelia bounded to her side and began chattering at full speed about the dress which sat on her coat rack at home, waiting to be donned for the night. 

Silvestro hummed to herself once before thumping off away from the women, sweeping away stray chalk from the floor that had been used to keep a grip on the polished wood. A wet cloth was used to wipe down the bar of sweat and the first aid kit was packed away securely, the constant sound of boots against the floor and ladies twittering filling the room as the ballerinas gossiped sweetly about the mountainous captain.

“She asked for a jacket, but I’m not sure I should give her one. It’ll be too hot in all of those diners and the weather’s taking a warmer turn anyway,” Amelia hushed, crossing her arms.

Valentina looked to her niece for a moment, and beneath the guise of the perfect primadonna, the woman let a sadness seep out for the girl. 

“She wants to hide the amputation, Amelia. Give her one. I have something that will suit the dress, probably,” she answered gently, before covering her frown with her feathers.

The mother winced a bit at that, before nodding and accepting the elder’s demand, both of them casting their gaze to the lumbering being of their groundskeeper, her body tilted slightly in overcompensation to straighten her spine against the newly uneven weight of her form.


	16. Chapter 16

“Are we done yet?” Silvestro whined, slumping more into her chair as the women bustled around her. She felt her hair get tugged on insistently as Amelia hacked at tangles in short-cropped locks, making the militant hiss in pain. “Come on, guys, we’ve got half an hour - and Amelia, you know you’re not getting this in a bun.”

The Prima Donnas huffed at the younger woman, their combined efforts showing on her skin as she winced away from Valentina’s brush, packed with a kind of vibrant lip tint.

“Maybe a less rich colour?” she offered hesitantly, not really feeling ready to coat her lips in the candy apple red.

Her aunt quirked her brow before digging through her makeup bag, pulling out shades from pale nude to the darkest of reds. They went through them together, taking swatches on Silvestro’s inner wrist as the instructor leant over to praise her favourites. They negotiated and set into a three-way verbal tug-of-war in which Silvestro recoiled from the adventurous colours of Amelia’s choices and the loud ones from Valentina’s selection; in the end, they settled on a nice cinnamon tint that was just a touch darker than her natural shade.

“You can barely see it though,” Amelia whined, setting a thin headband in place to pull back the scruffy hairs of Silvestro’s black fringe.

“That’s the point,” the ex-militant huffed, showing her wrist for her aunt to clean off the test swipes. “I thought that’s why they’re called ‘nudes’.”

“Hush, children; what matters is that Silvestro looks appealing. She must be able to lower his guard, and thus strike at a moment of weakness!” Valentina scolded, packing away her cosmetics.

The employees snorted in amusement at her blase way, before the ballerina pushed off of broadened shoulders and prancing over to the shoes that were discarded in the corner. Silvestro jammed her feet into the shoes and tapped her toes to get them comfortable, before tugging off the shirt she had slapped on after seeing all the cosmetic powders, and revealed her dress they had brushed of lint or Ruggine’s hairs.

Silvestro gave a yelp as the mother came up from behind her and almost aggressively yanked a thin belt tight around her waist, pinching her ribs and tugging at her flesh as she worked the buckle shut and spun it around. The ex-militant spluttered as she took a large breath, feeling the thin belt pull against the action.

“What the hell?”

“It’s only fashion, Silvestro,” Amelia tutted, fixing the positioning. “Cinching the waist accentuates an hourglass figure.”

“Which I don’t have,” the woman grunted, twisting left and right to get comfortable. “I’m more of a...downward triangle, was it?”

“Oh, you’re so pretty!” Amelia squealed, dumping herself on the bed and dragging the ailed cat onto her lap, ignoring how he yowled in dislike. “Gah, mystery fedora man better get ready to be slain!”

Silvestro scoffed before turning as her aunt walked up with a heavy, black coat, draping it over her shoulders so it draped down and covered the abrupt ending. She grunted a bit in thanks and tugged it on tighter.

“Ten minutes,” she sighed, resisting the urge to scrub at her scalp lest she mess up the hair Amelia had ‘slaved over’. “Now what?”

Ruggine answered that by screeching from beneath Amelia’s arms, kicking wildly and making the women look to his pathetic flailing. His struggles made Silvestro snort, painted lips twitching in the corners, before she let out a huffed breath and said, “well, I suppose I better give you your meds, Rugg.”

The cat paused, then peered at the woman, before his struggles went up a notch and Silvestro shouted for Amelia to keep a hold of him, pulling a bottle of pills from the kitchen shelf and returning to the struggling two. She hummed and took a pill in her fingers, before the ballerina wrestled his maw open and they shoved the cap between his teeth. Silvestro took a breath and blew his nose dry, making the cat grumble and swallow the pill to make room and rectify his nose. Ruggine hissed before launching himself from Amelia's lap and disappearing from the room, fur bristling in objection.

“Vile creature,” Valentina huffed, scrunching her nose at the fur that had clung to the ballerina’s shirt.

Silvestro rolled her eyes at her aunt’s nature before she grabbed the small bag on her side table, checking its contents of wallet; keys, and other necessities.

“Is that a pocket knife?” Amelia asked, Valentina coming around from the other side to frame the ex-militant.

“Well, yes. It’s very useful - saved me more than once,” she defended quickly, shutting the bag closed with its clasp and crossing her arm over herself with a huff.

The banter lasted only moments longer before the pitched screech of the doorbell made the women freeze, Valentina narrowing her eyes and clutching her fan tighter. Amelia smiled but chewed lightly on her tongue, glancing at the Primadonna superior with caution and worry, before focusing on how Silvestro had frozen on the spot.

The ex-militant shook her head to scramble everything back in place before grabbing up her bag and checking her keys, lightly nipping her lower lip as tension riddled her body.

“Come on,” Valentina scoffed, “You can handle a civil war, but you can’t deal with a date?”

The lumbering woman fiddled with her bag as it pulled her skin improperly for a moment before saying, “this isn’t the type of guy I’ve got experience dating.”

“It’ll be fine, Silvestro,” Amelia sighed, patting her shoulder. “Go on, he’s been waiting patiently at the door. Don’t want to keep him idling too long.”

Silvestro nodded before letting out a breath, relaxing her shoulders which caused her to shift her coat on better before she turned and walked out into the living room.

Quinto looked up from where he was strewn across her beat-up couch, ear pressed to his cassette player. He looked her up and down, before huffing and rolling over onto his side, grumbling about something inaudible as he turned up the volume on a screeching recording full of interference.

Silvestro rolled her eyes at his disgruntled nature before opening the door to her apartment, foot coming out by habit to stop Ruggine from bolting out the small gap. 

“Rugg, go back to your space. Go on,” she tutted and urged the cat away with her foot, making it yowl at her in dismay before he dropped onto his side in rebellion, leaving the woman staring down at his rusted-engine rumble of annoyance. Silvestro scoffed and opened the door now that he wasn’t going to make a run for it, her mood less grim due to the humour of the moment. “Sorry ‘bout him; he wasn’t made to be an indoor cat.”

“Oh, it’s fine,  _ bella _ ,” the man hummed, urging Silvestro to look at him finally. He was wearing his usual garb of a pitch-black two-piece suit, but the yellow of his undershirt seemed a shade richer and as he tipped his fedora, cufflinks winked at her. “You’re wearing the dress I bought you! My heart is fluttering.”

“Oh! Ah,” she looked down at herself for a moment, before forcing herself to stop, pinching her tongue between her teeth to control her low down desire to ramble. “I thought it was best for the situation. If I’m overdressed-“

“No!” the man yelped before choking and clearing his throat as if catching himself. “No, no, there’s no need to change, Ms Russ. I believe in no such thing as ‘overdressed’.”

Silvestro quirked her brow for a moment, watching as the strange bean man straightened himself and made quick glances - near unnoticeable - to the inside of her apartment, fleeting snatches of redirection that would have allowed him a rather sparse view of the internal workings. The woman hummed a noise before touching the doorknob and inclined her head.

“Well, are we ready to go then?”

“If you are, my lady,” he crooned, offering his arm.

Silvestro didn’t take it, too focused on locking her door behind her and glaring at Amelia to stop peeking around the corner. Even Quinto had looked up from his napping to catch a glimpse of the man, but her hulking form hadn’t allowed the family of busy-bodies such a luxury.

The man stood there for a moment, arm extended, before quietly clearing his throat and tucking it behind his back just seconds before the timeframe became acceptably awkward. He sniffed and scratched his nape then quickly straightened as the Russ woman turned her eyes upon him, expression contorting into an inviting one as he gestured towards the illuminated stairwell.

“Shall I lead the way?” he asked, getting a blink from the ex-militant.

“Well, yeah, you know where we’re going.”

The man’s smile wavered in its strength there, and Silvestro bit her tongue in self-reprimand. She nibbled on her inner cheek for a moment and followed as fedora man walked, hesitating when he turned and offered her his hand as they came to the stairs. She blinked owlishly down at the presented palm, taking a moment to register the deceptively smooth looking surface, knowing the skin to be rough to the touch.

“Oh,  _ bella _ , will you reject me yet again?” he pleaded playfully, looking like a wounded man as he gazed up at her from a step down.

Silvestro tried to examine his expression - but shook off the habit as soon as she realised what she was doing.

“You like to whine don’t you, Stringbean?” she scoffed as she placed her hand in his, something deep within her shifting in a disturbed manner. Fingers wrapped around her darker complexion in a way that was artfully loose, but somehow, she felt that if she were to withdraw, he would clamp down around her.

“You wound me, my lady!” he exclaimed and took her weight as she took the steps down with him.

Silvestro rolled her eyes as they stepped out and took her hand back to hold her coat as a wind chilled her. The action wasn’t ignored as dark eyes were sent to her in a side glance, making the woman wonder if her retraction had indeed been as swift as she had hoped it hadn’t been.

“So, where are you taking me, Mr Fedora Man?” she asked as they walked, side by side.

The cobblestone path clopped beneath their feet as he let out a charming laugh, tilting his head in a curled fashion which exposed his throat. He folded his hands behind his back in a proper manner, spine straight, like he was trying to regain the few inches he could whilst standing beside a woman who was just that much taller than him.

Silvestro nipped the inside of her cheek. She shouldn’t fuss.

“Oh, it’s a nice little place uptown; nothing too much, I assure you,” he answered with a smile before waving his hand in a dismissive manner. “Have you heard of the  _ Occhi Di Perle _ restaurant?”

Promptly, Silvestro choked.

“The  _ Occhi Di Perle _ ?! Why the absolute hell-”

“Ah, so you have heard of it! Wonderful, then it’ll be easier for us to settle in once we’re there.”

The Russ woman hid her desire to wheeze before diverting her train of thought, quick to keep herself contained as a new blend of hesitations swelled in her stomach.

“And how will we be getting there? The trains?”

“Nonsense,  _ bella!” _ the man chuckled, before coming to a stop and making the woman do the same. He seemed to find her confusion appealing as he tipped his hat and pulled out a loop of jangling keys. He then slid it into the door of a black car which had been parked along the side of the road. “We’ll be driving there, of course.”

The ex-militant stared at the vehicle blankly, fingers sinking into the material of her hanging purse the more she processed the situation.

The car was out of place in their little town that was crammed into the border of Venice. It’s British sports car physique, sleek and a glossy, pitch black, was sticking out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of worn cobblestone and rusted water pipes. The interior was a beige two-seater, pristine and perfect, and Silvestro suddenly remembered the dirt which clung to the remains of the sticker on the sole of her shoe.

“Lovely car isn’t it?” the man hummed, perhaps not noticing her turmoil or perhaps choosing not to point it out. “It’s a-”

“A Jaguar E-Type,” Silvestro blurted, making the lanky man spin around.

“Oh?” he uttered with humour. “The lady knows her cars?”

That made her frown, not sure if she liked the phrasing of that sentence.

“Not personally,” she sighed, walking forward to join him beside the vehicle. “But a young man in my cadets unit was quite the fanatic.”

“Really? And you still keep in touch? They only released this model in 1961.”

“Yes, we do,” was the decided answer, along with the faintest narrowing of mahogany eyes.

The strange man was still smiling like he was humouring her rather than conversing.

Silvestro felt herself tense beneath the dress, shoulders pulling the fabric as she set them in a firm line, her body expressing how the man was edging into a dangerous territory rather than her mouth. She bit her tongue when he didn’t do more than tilt his hat’s brim to cover his eyes and smile wider, sheepish - or thrilled.

Despite how her skin seemed to tingle with warning, the Russ woman only sighed and accepted the assistance of a hand to set herself down in the passenger seat, fixing her dress and placing her hand on her lap along with her purse. The car rocked a bit as the strange man got into the other side and let the engine roar to life; metal purring under her feet in a manner that wasn’t unlike Ruggine.

The man seemed to notice her relaxing under the rumble of the motor and gave a low chuckle that was designed to send tingles through the flesh of those who heard it. 

“So, how was your day so far,  _ bella?”  _ he asked as they pulled onto the road and joined a line of idling cars.

“Fairly good,” she hummed, playing with the clasp of her purse as she watched the houses rise in value.

“You had guests in your apartment. One was that instructor woman from the  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup,  _ right? Are you very close?”

Silvestro hummed before letting her lips curl into a smile, softening her expression as conversation eased the atmosphere.

“Yeah, Amelia’s a nice woman,” then she snorted, the action less than graceful but expressive of her humour. “I think she was more excited about this date than I was, actually!”

The man smiled at the noise that escaped her, his grip on the wheel clenching for a moment. As he turned the corner and came to a long stretch of road, he pressed down and accelerated beyond what could have even loosely recognised as the speed limit.

Silvestro inhaled sharply as they swung around to overtake a family’s Mustang, feeling the force lag with the physical bodies.

“She was more excited than you, was she? Should I be taking her on a date soon too then?” he laughed, swerving sharply again and reclaiming the road.

“You’d have to compete with her son for attention, I should warn you,” the Russ woman glanced to him out of the corner of her eye, disgruntled by the joke, but not showing it as she responded with an easy tone.

“Oh, dear, a son?” came the response, still laced with light banter. “I wouldn’t dare to step to that,  _ bella _ . ”

“Guess you’re stuck with me then,” she hummed.

“What a _ pleasant punishment, _ ” he crooned in a tone that could not be misconstrued.

Silvestro kept her gaze on the long road despite the words, a twitch coming to her system as she began to see tall buildings with more windows than walls. Mood lighting and chandeliers were popping up along with covered outdoor seating that was just as well kept as the indoor furniture

“Nearly there?” she asked, tapping her heel restlessly.

“Nearly, just a couple more minutes.”

Silvestro found herself fiddling with the clasp of her purse, opening and closing it absently to satiate the desire to burn out her compounding fight-or-flight. She thinned her lips and tried to focus on the purr of the car, concentrate on how the rumbling engine made her skin tingle with vibrations not too different to the way Ruggine did when he was contented with a meal.

The ex-militant relaxed with the thought before looking up as they swerved gently - for once - and came to a stop before an anxiety-inducingly lavish establishment. The door on Silvestro’s side was popped open for her and made her jump a bit, her strange companion laughing gently at her nervous buckling and he too got out and all but tossed his keys to the stiff-backed valet.

He hummed and offered his hand to her as she stepped out, making her pause as she clutched her purse tighter even as the strap hung from her wrist. The man registered this action, coal eyes dropping to it for less than a flash - and he smiled and moved instead to lightly rest his hand above the small of the militant’s back.

Silvestro nodded slightly to show for him to proceed and his hand fell flush to her frame guiding her along as he made small talk on a topic she felt more than a little lost on.

“ _ Occhi Di Perle _ is definitely the best restaurant this side of Venice, however, I will say that it comes second only to the  _ Vino Rosmarino _ .”

“Oh,” she uttered blankly, only understanding that there was a lot of money in that sentence. “Do you...often come to places like this?”

Her company for tonight seemed to be amused by her question, and took his time tailoring and answer for her, making an outward show of warping his words to convey a coy attitude.

“If I choose to,” he shrugged, and Silvestro’s mind immediately summoned up the memory of an interaction from a while ago.

_ “So, you’re making it for the little ballerinas?” he hummed, smiling in that ambiguous manner. “You seem to really like children, Ms Russ. Do you plan to have any of your own?” _

_ She tightened her grip on the planks for a moment, but dark eyes noticed the jump in strength with piqued attentiveness. _

_ “If I choose to,” came the indefinite response. _

Quid pro quo; he’d only give as much as she did. Or at least, seem to give as much. She honestly had no way to gauge how truthful anything this man said other than to trust in his word. And with an extending list of loose names, it was unlikely to hold.

“Fair enough,” she hummed out, covering the tension quickly and allowing them to step into the warm temperature of the  _ Occhi Di Perle. _

The place  _ smelt  _ expensive from the instant her flats hit the floor, a golden hue cast by the lighting and making the marble statue of painstaking carved silk-like loops glow vibrantly as it conducted the light traffic of the surrounding lobby. Men in fine pressed suits strode from table to table within the restaurant, a pristine cloth over their arm as they seemed to float seamlessly through the isles, blending into the scene in a way that made them near unseen.

Silvestro and her company approached the small counter and was greeted with a smile by the doorman, his teeth a near startling white as he quickly regarded the pair.

“Good evening, do you have a reservation?” the man asked, inclining his body in a falsely eager way.

“Yes, under the name Renato,” he smiled back, seeming internally pleased as a waiter tripped over behind them when he heard the name.

Silvestro struggled to not roll her eyes at the sheer chaos that followed the announcement of his presence. She wondered what  _ ‘amazing’  _ list of outlandish accomplishments followed that name. What would he think up this time? The prince of a small European country? A professor at a world-renowned university?

“Mr R-Renato, sir!” the doorman gasped out, choking on his breath like his throat was closing up from shock.

“Please,” tonight’s ‘Renato’ uttered, holding up a hand to pause the man’s floundering, “I’m just after a nice dinner tonight. No need to be so formal.”

“Yes sir,” came the man’s faint squeak, before another waiter came up from behind them and drew their attention.

“Excuse me, Mr Renato?” he asked, getting a nod from the stringy bean man. “There’s someone on the telephone for you.”

“Oh?” the man uttered, looking to the staff before turning to his company. “You’ll be alright on your own for a little while,  _ bella?” _

“Yeah, sure,” Silvestro shrugged, getting a smile before they parted and she was guided to their table by the stumbling waiter. “Thank you...Are you alright?”

“Y-Yes ma’am!” the young man wheezed, before booking it out of there.

The ex-militant sighed and rubbed her face before putting her purse on the table and leant back in her chair, coat still draped over her shoulders and concealing as she turned her attention to the window. She watched in a kind of watered-down appreciation as she took in the amber glow of an evening over the harbour, small boats rowing past along with a piece of nice music that seemed to come from a distance.

Fifteen minutes had passed by the time Silvestro had become irreversibly uncomfortable and vaguely worried, she nibbled on a finely seasoned breadstick as she looked over her shoulder at the doors where she had come in hoping to see ‘Renato’ before much longer. She frowned a bit and gently denied a waiter who asked if she was ready.

Under the low murmur of the patrons within the restaurant, there were quiet clatters that emanated from behind the curtains of a small stage to the back of the room; a surefire sign that the evening’s entertainment was preparing to present itself. ‘Renato’ had disclosed that it was going to be some sort of comedy.

Another few minutes passed, perhaps five, before she began to recollect her purse and stand, wondering if she should go check on the man. It had been a phone call directly to the  _ Occhi Di Perle _ , so perhaps it was a business engagement?

Silvestro tugged her coat tighter and stepped around her seat before her whole spine bristled in warning, a heavy presence forming behind her.

“Oh, wh-”

Her arm snapped back and she felt her elbow dig into soft flesh, proving she had successfully impacted - before she realised that, indeed, it was ‘Renato’ who was now doubled over and wheezing painfully, protecting his loins with a pale face.

“Oh, thank God, it’s just you,” Silvestro sighed, letting out a relieved breath. “I thought I hurt someone actually important.”

‘Renato’ had the capability to look comically betrayed beneath the turmoil and got flashed a rugged smile from the ex-militant before she put her purse down and helped him into her already out seat. He dropped down with a huff and panted through the pain, taking deep breaths trying to find a happy place among it all.

The people at the surrounding tables were muttering and sending them looks of confusion and annoyance; they were no doubt ruining the classy atmosphere of the  _ Occhi Di Perle _ , but Silvestro focused her attention on the crumpled man.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, still standing next to him now that she had had her laugh.

“Yeah,” he nodded, sounding just an octave higher than usual, “I’ll be fine,” then he cracked a smile and chuckled. “Though, I think if I took another one of those my lineage would end with me.”

Silvestro snorted and sat herself down across from him at their table for two, the other patrons turning back now that the scene had ended.

The man took his yellow-strapped fedora off and placed it down on the side of the table, his hair slicked back but only enough to force the pronounced bristle of his pitch locks to angle out the back of his head like the crest of some sort of black cockatiel.

“Sorry ‘bout jabbing you in the gut,” she apologised, taking a menu from him as they settled down and he stopped wheezing with every breath. “Well, a bit lower than the gut.”

“It’s fine,” ‘Renato’ soothed, quickly ordering them a wine with a mouthful of a name without so much as referencing the drinks page. “I should have known better than to sneak up on a veteran. Lets both agree to not do it again?”

“Fair enough,” Silvestro shrugged, eyeing the prices and feeling pain in her soul and wallet. “Dear God, these are expensive. Why are they so expensive?”

“Don’t worry, I’m paying for tonight,” he hummed, closing his menu, having already chosen his plate. “Are you ready?”

“Uh...think so, yeah,” she nodded, “Are you sure though? I mean, these kinds of prices are meant for occasions and-”

“Are you saying this isn’t a special occasion?” ‘Renato’ asked, tilting his head.

Silvestro paused and frowned, taken by surprise and unable to deny his question without seeming rude. She sighed and rubbed her nape before submitting to his silent pressure and made a gesture to one of the seafood dishes that she deemed familiar enough on the exotic menu.

“Don’t let it worry you,  _ bella, _ ” he urged as the waiter blended into the rest of the scene. “I’ve got enough to spend on this, no problem. Eat as much as you want, don’t hold back on my account.” Then he smiled and leant forward, hands bridged together. “Something’s got to sustain that figure of yours after all.”

Another frown and ‘Renato’ backed up with an apologetic twitch of the lips.

“So,” Silvestro started after a beat of repairing silence, “Am I allowed to ask about that call?”

“It was just some business - a work call.”

“Ah, thought as much, must have been important,” she murmured, bowing her brows in concern. “Do you need to postpone? I’d hate to keep you from any too dire.”

‘Renato’s’ lip twitched at something she said, a flash of something humorous slipping behind his eyes.

“No, no,” he hummed smoothly, voice taking a richer tone with the slight shift of mood. “It was nothing  _ too ‘dire’ _ .”

“That’s good. Just some kind of last-minute information?”

A waiter came and gently set down a wine bottle and two glasses for them, pouring deep red into the crystal glass and getting a smile of thanks from the ex-soldier and the nameless entity.

“Yes, just some information on a new target since we’ve managed to reach the last one,” he nodded, fingering the rim of his cup and making the glass sing quietly.

“What kind of work do you do, exactly?” Silvestro asked, brows furrowing slightly as she recalled the...stunts he had enacted in the past months.

‘Renato’ paused his playing and looked to the woman in a way that made her dig her heels into the dark wood flooring.

“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. Contract work; I do whatever pays well,” he hummed easily, waving his hand about as he rested his chin on the other.

Silvestro thinned her lips at the vague response but pushed no further, knowing that nothing would come from it beyond running in verbal circles. She nodded to show she accepted his evasions, getting a quirk of the lips, before tapping the table with her fingertips in a swift drumming and launching into another topic before the air could become too stale and the satisfaction in ‘Renato’s face could become too potent.

“So, ‘Renato’,” the ex-militant grunted, before pausing and scrambling in her mind for something,  _ anything  _ to talk about. “Cats or dogs?”

Smooth.

‘Renato’ snorted into his cup, the sound unscripted and nice to the woman’s ears, before he coughed and lowered his wine to smile and utter an almost distracted: “I’m more of a lizard man, myself.”

“Lizards?” Silvestro echoed, intrigued.

“Yes,” he nodded, seemingly pleased by her sudden engagement. “Actually, I have a chameleon as a companion.”

“Really? Do they take much to care for?” she asked, leaning her arm on the table as she began to relax again. “Surely you can’t just take them to the vet down the street!”

“Exotic vets are easy enough to come by when you look in the right places,” ‘Renato’ explained, placing his chin in his hand as he continued to observe her interest.

“What’s their name?” she hummed, not quite as perturbed as she would have been as the man’s action made their gap smaller by an inch. “Are they as much of a menace as Ruggine?”

“Nothing could be as much of a menace as that cat,” he grumbled, getting a less-than-refined snort from the woman. “I’ll have you know that my Leon is a refined and obedient individual!”

“Oh, forgive me, I never meant to slander such a gentleman,” Silvestro scoffed with a laugh.

“As trying as it is, I suppose I must forgive the  _ bella _ ,” he sighed, playfully distraught.

“So, are chameleons really able to blend with anything? Like wallpaper and patterns, too?”

“I can’t speak for all the others, but my Leon certainly can. A true prodigy he is. Pride of the house!” the man laughed, puffing up his chest a little and the gleam in his eye finally a genuine shine. “And your hellcat?”

“Ruggine is...” Silvestro thought to the many times she had to rescue the creature from his spot under her bed, only to watch him squirm beneath the frame yet again. “Persistent.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” ‘Renato’ murmured, rubbing his cheek as if soothing a phantom pain.

“Rugg is special, okay?”

_ “Very.” _

Silvestro snorted into her cup and put it down quickly to cover her mouth, clearing her throat as she tried to get the sting out of her nose. The look of distaste that had marred the man’s face when he had uttered the stressed word rung clear in her ears and made her lips pinch as she forced herself to swallow; ‘Renato’ watched on with a smile.

“Pardon me,” a waiter interrupted gently, making the woman calm down and move her purse from the table to her lap.

Silvestro pushed her wine glass further to the side before looking to her dinner partner and frowning a bit as he smiled for just a moment longer than he had before at the young man who was holding their plates.

“Thank you,” she hummed as her dish was placed before her, the angle close to tipping off the sauce from the edge of the plate and making her tilt her head with worry - and mild confusion. Was he a new waiter?

“Yes, thank you very much,” ‘Renato’ chimed, voice too smooth in a way the woman recognised.

She dug her heels in quickly but forced herself to remain seated and poured herself another glass of wine despite how everything under her skin told her not to disregard that tone.

“How many people does this place employ?” she wondered aloud, watching the waiter go - an obviously different one to the person who had originally served their table.

“Oh, only the finest,” the man smiled in a way that suggested something and Silvestro thought to the near-miss with her plate.

“Really?” she murmured, before shrugging and grabbing up her fork as she eyed her dish with a kind of delight. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this!”

“Don’t get to indulge much,  _ bella?” _

“Yeah,” Silvestro grunted, curling her fork with the creamy, cheesy alfredo noodles. “The doc usually hounds me if he finds out I’m going to eat this kind of stuff.”

“Your doctor?” ‘Renato’ echoed, suddenly very attentive to the conversation. “Why? Should you not be-”

“Nah, it’s not like I’m gonna go up in a rash or anything,” she denied, before popping the sizable lump in her mouth and chomping through it happily. The woman hummed a low note of satisfaction. “I’m just a bit lactose intolerant, I like to call it ‘lactose sensitive’, personally.”

Silvestro blinked as her fork stabbed the table.

“You shouldn’t be eating this then,  _ bella _ ,” ‘Renato’ scolded smoothly, holding her plate in his hands. “We can order something different and  _ without  _ dairy. I would hate you leaving this evening with an aching stomach!”

“But...I want to eat that?” she uttered, “Give it back.”

_ “Bella,  _ you’ll only put yourself in avoidable pain!”

“By my  _ food _ .”

“Another dish will be just as satisfying,” he assured, still keeping the plate away from her reach.

“You do realise I have a fork, yes?” Silvestro announced, pointing her cutlery at the man with a flick of her wrist and a raise of her eyebrow.

“In a high class, fancy establishment such as this?” ‘Renato’ gasped dramatically, before smiling in a manner that was much too dark and yet just as playful. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The woman paused and then sighed in defeat, lowering her fork to the table and resting her cheek in her hand and she gazed at the man across from her.

“I suppose you’re right, I can’t just go around attacking people so obviously.”

‘Renato’s expression of victory lasted a total of three seconds before he gave a choked  _ ‘ooft’  _ and crumbled, his femur sobbing within its fleshy constraints whilst Silvestro withdrew her foot and took back her plate with a polite smile that was four shades too satisfied and sadistic.

“I thought you said-” he started to wheeze and the ex-militant interrupted with a narrow-eyed grin.

“I said ‘obviously’,” and true to her words, none of the other patrons were privy to the pain he was in. She hummed a rough, low tone of amusement before forking alfredo onto her tongue. “Are you going to start eating?”

‘Renato’ pouted playfully and in the darkness of his eyes, no one could see his pupils expand to devour the sight as he felt his leg throb from the blunt force of her flats. He hummed a little tune of defeat before picking up his knife and fork with delicate practice and sliced into his red meat with enjoyment, popping it into his mouth and feeling it lavish his tongue.

Silvestro blinked when her dinner partner withdrew a small capsule from his breast pocket, the pill yellow and white in colour before he swallowed it quickly with a chasing of their fine wine.

“Are you sick?” she asked, before biting her tongue and cursing in the back of her head for asking the probing question.

“Oh? Only minorly,” ‘Renato’ assured, “Just a bit of a passing bug, I need to take some medicine with my food for a couple of days.”

“That’s good,” Silvestro grunted with a firm nod, “A lot of people have been sick lately, Doc’s been running around making a bunch of house calls.”

“Ah!” the man gasped, cupping his hand over his chest. “My heart! My  _ bella  _ truly does care for me!”

The ex-militant smiled around her fork but didn’t acknowledge the exclamation to further dignify it. She huffed and ignored how his grin extended high into his cheeks as he watched her before also turning to his own plate.

“But, because you have so very eloquently convinced me to let you eat such a dairy-heavy dish,” Silvestro raised an amused eyebrow, and the man smirked in response. “You’ll have to relinquish your claim to any of the creamier deserts,  _ bella _ . I may be weak to your games, but I’m not neglectful.”

“Hah, you’ll have to fight me on that,” she grunted, getting another heaping onto her fork, uncaring for how a woman two tables down balked at the ‘undainty’ size.

Silvestro didn’t care about how the women gave her a look of disgruntle, however, it made her realise with a skin sizzling realisation of the sheer amount of eyes on their table. Hidden behind fringes and delicately cupped hands, obscured underneath long lashes and from around wine glasses; every third table or so had gained an interest in table 7. In ‘Renato’s’ table.

She gripped her fork tighter, feeling her shoulder burn under her jacket. It was rude to keep coats on inside.

...Why had this man asked her out on a date again?

Was this a date? What about the red woman, not weeks ago?

“Have you been working at the  _ Balletto Giovanile Bacigalup _ for long,  _ bella _ ?” ‘Renato’ asked, breaking her back into attention and away from her thoughts.

“Eh? Oh, not long really, no. Just under a year.”

“You seem to have gotten very attached to the children there.”

“Yeah,” Silvestro admitted, arranging her noodles around her plate absently.

“Do you like children, then?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she repeated, smiling to herself when she remembered how they had circled her and had chanted ‘ _ Ms Russ will be fine _ ’ earlier that day. “I like to watch them grow and...yeah, stuff like that.

There was a beat of silence and Silvestro dropped her eyes to fiddle with her fork, feeling the man across the table stare unblinkingly at her with a kind of...softness that she wasn’t used to. She chewed on her cheek for a moment before breathing out through her nose and pulling her gaze back to his face.

“What about you? Do you like kids?”

“Hm,” he uttered slowly, bridging his fingers together. “I become more fond of them the longer they’re around, but I’m not one of those people who coo at baby photos.”

“Fair enough,” she nodded and then the clacking of shoes and equipment sounded from the hidden stage.

The two diners glanced at each other one last time before they focused their gazes on the stage just in time to see a stout little man glide to the split of the ruby curtains where a melodium microphone stood on its stand. He smiled at everyone with his startlingly white teeth before grabbing the stand and leaning it towards his lips.

Silvestro shifted and tugged her coat tighter for a moment, avoiding connecting the glance ‘Renato’ sent her way. She hummed and played with her fork as she paid an idle ear to the low roar which underlined the man’s speech, all the while feeling her company’s eyes carve an outline of her face.

“How, exactly, did you come upon your little hell-cat?” he asked, drawing her attention.

“Oh,” the ex-militant blinked, turning her head to him and resting her elbow on the table and her jaw upon that, not seeing the glare sent at her by a passing waiter. “He climbed through my window one day and trashed my apartment. He came back, like, the two days afterwards when it was raining cats and dogs and I let him in. Hasn’t left since.”

“Raining  _ ‘cats and dogs’ _ you say?”

“...If you do it, I will have no choice but to fight you.”

“Darn.”

The curtains to the stage opened with a flourish and drum’s heavy roll, and over the course of half an hour, the smile slowly slipped from Silvestro's face. Her fork groaned in her fist and her shoulder pulsed angrily under her jacket as mahogany eyes took in the way characters jeered and cackled at the recurring theme and character of a deformed little girl, the words of the narrator justifying their actions with jocund ease.

“...What was this genre again?” she asked, as she watched the protagonist speak in twisting and backwards metaphors to ‘prove how stupid that gimp invalid really is’.

“Comedy,  _ bella _ ,” ‘Renato’ laughed, watching the actor hobbled across the stage with exaggerated stiff and non-responding limbs.

The low rumble which had roared in her ears tore through her and escaped as an angry breath, her blunt shoulder pulsing as she bared her teeth and stood, her chair kicking back and clashing with that of the person’s behind her.

“ _ Bella? _ ” ‘Renato’ blurted, startled by her sudden movement and watched with wide eyes as the ex-militant grabbed her purse hard enough to make the material groan. “ _ Bella _ , what’s wrong? Oh, I told you eating a dish with so much cream would-”

“This play is disgusting and a waste of money and attention spans,” she boomed, and heads slowly turned in their direction yet again. “The fact that you would find this sort of thing funny is fucked, and a sure ass sign that we wouldn’t work together. Goodbye and fuck off, ‘Renato’.”

“Wait. Ms Russ, wait,” he tried, getting to his feet as she stormed past, feeling the air around her crackle dangerously.

He grasped the back of his chair tightly as he watched her shove the doors to the _ Occhi De Perle  _ open before the doorman could, leaving the staff to flounder as it smacked back in place a crack appearing in the corner of the glass pane. The thin being paused and looked to where she had sat, a sigh falling from his lips when he saw the thick jacket which hung from the upturned chair, Silvestro’s jacket having fallen off in her burst of barely contained aggression. ‘Renato’ grabbed it up and put it over the crook of his arm, a warm, nutty scent wafting up to his nose.

“Careful,” someone laughed, and the black-eyed man turned to see a Sky smirking up at him, amused. “You’ve got yourself a  _ ‘progressive’  _ one. If you don’t watch out, she’ll start stealing your pockets.”

‘Renato’ stared at the unnamed person before his face fell blank, a look of uninterested repulsion gleaming in his eye as he straightened his jacket and grabbed his hat off the table.

“You sound very proud for someone so pathetic,” he scoffed before hastily following the mountainous woman, leaving behind the room of dazzled and dazed Flames.

The suited being donned his hat as he exited into the night, a blast of icy air his immediate greeting and he grit his teeth as he held the woman’s jacket in his grasp, worry and guilt bubbling in his stomach. God, why had he not gone with his instinct and just rented the whole place out for the night?

“Because she would have been intimidated, obviously,” the man who called himself ‘Renato’ sighed before looking around as to where the woman had gone.

Then he felt it, that strange paradoxical aura which rung with a resonance he had never encountered before. It was a sound that was practically synonymous with the woman’s name now, and he followed it like a cat with a string, right through the crowds until he found her standing in front of a pet store, bent at the knees to smiled down at juvenile bulldogs who piled on one another to get closer to her.

He knew the feeling.

Another gust when through the street and whipped up fallen leaves, the folk who pottered around giving gasps as their skin pricked from the cold. Silvestro shivered as she rubbed her hollow shoulder, holding herself tight.

The lanky man stepped out of the crowd and cleared his throat quietly, making the ex-militant turn to him. He saw an array of muddled emotions flash through her eyes, different thoughts running into the back of one another - before he reached out and offered the woman her coat.

“It’s too cold to go without a jacket,  _ bella _ ,” he uttered softly, “It’d be terrible if you fell ill.”

Silvestro stared at him mutely for one, two moments, before she sighed and took her garb, shrugging it on slowly. The tip of her nose was blushed red from the cold as she cuddled into her coat and it made the man’s heart squeeze in ways he wasn’t used to even as her eyes remained cast to the side in misplaced shame.

“I’m..sorry I yelled at you without thinking,” she murmured and ‘Renato’ furrowed his brows in confusion. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You could have been trying to fit in or just not make a scene and I-”

“No, Ms Russ, please,” ‘Renato’ interrupted gently, clasping his hands in front of himself in an unusual show of self-consciousness. “I laughed at that play because I found it funny, not because I was trying to hide. And that was wrong of me, I didn’t...Didn’t think of the real-world implications of it and just thought it mindless fun. I’m sorry I made you sit through that.”

There was a beat of silence and he could feel the woman across from him crunching the metaphorical numbers, her lips held in a stern line which revealed no inclination as to what result she had come upon.

Screams and cheers made the two pivot, the sight of a rather flimsy balloon breaking on the horizon making the woman raise an eyebrow and then glance to the being beside her. ‘Renato’ noticed when she bit her lip before she walked on, following the sounds of kazoos and bells.

It was only when she was at the cusp of entering what seemed to be a street fair, did she look over her shoulder to him, faded old lottery light casting the woman in honey yellow.

“Are you coming, string bean?”

‘Renato’ tilted his hat down quickly to cover the sparkle in his eyes, thankful for a tangible body which hid how his heart lurched to follow at her command. Instead, he smirked and glided across the cobblestone path to stand by her side, gazing up to see how she was surrounded by a halo of fairy lights.

He reached for her hand but she flinched back a little, and he bowed his head in acceptance.

Okay, not just yet then.


End file.
